


syncopated

by ladyeggplant



Series: bro but make it soft [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Substance Abuse, Road Trips, bro but make it soft, tbh it's just like 23k of bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 00:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyeggplant/pseuds/ladyeggplant
Summary: They’ve fallen asleep together a lot over the years.





	syncopated

**Author's Note:**

> a companion fic to [you're the one that brings the sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397706), but it can probably be read as a stand alone. 
> 
> very much a work of fiction.

“I can’t believe my best friend is fucking leaving me.”

Taylor drops his phone from in front of his face and shoots Ebs the heaviest glare he can manage while still so close to bursting at the seams from all the Chinese takeout they just inhaled. Ebs doesn’t even notice though, so he has to pointedly clear his throat until Ebs eventually lolls his head to the side from where he’s sprawled out on Taylor’s bed, surrounded by empty white cartons and slips of ignored fortunes. 

“My best friend who actually likes me,” Ebs amends, and okay, fair enough. Taylor goes back to his phone and Ebs goes back to lamenting, “Fucking Marty’s getting married—”

“Allegedly.”

“—Casey’s having a baby. Cal’s opening his food truck,” Ebs goes on. “God, everyone’s like, growing up.”

Jordan Eberle has never once, a day in his entire life, ever sounded anything close to profound. But he’s currently maudlin, drunk on a handle of Fireball at 2am on Taylor’s bed, so he’s dangerously toeing the line. Taylor guesses it’s his responsibility to pull Ebs back.

Also, he literally can’t spend another second listening to Ebs whine about Tito moving to New York, Jesus Christ. It’s not like they both didn’t see this coming when Barzy went out there for school two years ago. If anything, it’s almost anti-climactic. 

The smart thing to do would probably be to unpack all of the things Ebs is feeling, like normal emotionally well adjusted adults. Taylor Hall has never been smart or well adjusted in any respect, and he doesn’t really see the point in starting now when body slamming Ebs into his mattress honestly works just as well.

“Ow! Ow, you fucker, your fucking elbow is in my spleen!” Ebs hisses between rips of laughter.

“Okay, there’s no way you even know where your spleen is,” Taylor snorts, giving his elbow one last good shove before Ebs manages to roll them, whipping a pillow into Taylor’s face. They scuffle for a minute, trying to one up each other, which could probably go on forever if they let it. Taylor kind of wants to let it, but exhaustion wins out and they sort of end up just deflating, Ebs’ face mashed into his shoulder. There’s a puff of breath against the hollow of his throat, and through the droop of exhaustion he’s cut like a live wire, awake, aware.

“Ebs,” he says, then again, louder when Ebs doesn’t move, _“Ebs.”_

Ebs grunts.

“Ebs, get off.”

A gurgled, “...Fuckin’ make me.”

Taylor pushes out all the air in his lungs, staring up at the ceiling, eyes burning.

—7 years ago— 

They’ve fallen asleep together a lot over the years.

In Taylor’s bed, in Ebs’, in Nuge’s, in hammocks, on weird smelling sofas, on the beach, that one time in the drunk tank at the police station. Most of them blur together, indistinguishable between metric tons of takeout and bleary sunrises over the boardwalk. But the first time has always stood out in Taylor’s memory.

A cramped house party just outside of Litore, burst of warmth in late March that has people bleeding out into the backyard, Taylor stumbling through the patio furniture at 4am and crashing on a long plastic lounge chair. He hates Litore, fucking takes a billion years to get there and everything smells like fish and low tide and the people suck, everyone sucks. 

He’s just on the crest of sleep, wrapped up in old jeans that are split at the knees and a threadbare hoodie, when a hand grips his shoulder and starts shaking. “Hey. _Hey.”_

He turns further into himself. “Fuggoff.”

“Yo, I was here first.”

“Well,” Taylor slurs, jerking his head around to look up, the face above him haloed by the glare of the back porch light. “I’m here now, so fuck off.”

Asshole. He curls back into himself, shoving his hands as deep as they’ll go into his hoodie pockets, bringing his knees up. There’s a loud exhale somewhere above, and the creak of cheap plastic before Taylor feels heat radiating behind him, a tired voice slurring, “Fuckin’ move over then.”

He hisses over his shoulder, “The fuck’re you doing?”

“I’m not sleeping in the grass,” the guy grunts. “So we’re sharing. It’s caring. Deal with it.”

Taylor is too high and too tired to deal with any of this, so he pulls the hood of his jacket up and buries his face into the crook of his elbow, because whatever. It’s a shivery, mushy sleep, dipping in and out of full consciousness before the queasy roll of his gut forces him to sit up. That morning is a slate sky of gray smog, and Taylor feels like he’s suffocating, lungs and throat raw from smoking too much, hands shaking from going too long without something to hold onto, teeth chattering even though it’s sticky and warm out.

“Dude,” the voice from last night asks, “are you okay?”

When he turns around, Ebs is there, even though he isn’t Ebs yet. He’s just some guy with his hair sticking out in every direction and a heavy lidded gaze that somehow still feels like it’s seeing right through Taylor.

“Hey, woah, I’ll get you—shit hold on.”

Taylor is barely eighteen, running around LA like a fucking idiot, doing shit he shouldn’t be doing. He’s dropped out of UCLA. He shakes whenever he’s sober. He hasn’t talked to his mom in months because he can’t bring himself to tell her everything, can’t stand the idea of breaking her heart. When Ebs gives him water and aspirin, and tells him he’s okay when he ducks his head between his knees because the world won’t stop spinning, the hand rubbing up and down his back is the first time someone has touched him like this in months.

That first year is still such a blur. He only barely remembers the stark sober moments waking up in awful, eye-piercing sunshine in places he shouldn’t have gone to sleep in, sweating through his clothes while shivering and usually puking his balls off. Compared to the literal tragedies LA has seen, his shit doesn’t even scratch the surface. Just a dumbass kid who gets in way over his head, who likes pills a little too much, who doesn’t feel alive if he isn’t burning on the inside.

—

“Bro, no.”

“Halls, c’mon,” Ebs whines, across the table from him at Barry’s Burgers on the Litore Boardwalk, severe sunshine flooding every nook and cranny. Ebs is on his break, apron balled up next to a giant greasy plate of fries, full of the extra crispy rejects Ebs knows Taylor loves. Taylor should’ve seen it for what it clearly was when Ebs put them in front of him—a sad, shallow attempt at bribery. 

Taylor shoves another four or five into his mouth, shaking his head. “Abso-fucking-lutely not. Marty hates me, and he 1000% doesn’t want me at his wedding.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” but even Ebs can’t keep a straight face as he says it. Which is something, because Ebs’ only face is a straight one, the flinch so obvious it ripples across his expression. “Okay, he’s not like, your biggest fan. But I marked plus one on the RSVP, so I gotta bring someone.”

“We literally had the same fucking argument last year.”

“And you said yes!”

“I said yes to the wedding that never happened,” Taylor corrects, pointing with a fry. “It’s not my fault that cult burned their venue down—which, by the way, you still owe me fifty bucks from, because I _told you_ it was a cult.”

And he’d only said yes in a moment of what he thinks qualifies as extreme duress, Ebs drunk in his lap with an arm around Taylor’s neck, leaning in close with rum heavy on his breath. Ebs asking, lips brushing the shell of Taylor’s ear in a way that made the synapses of Taylor’s brain short circuit. When the wedding got cancelled last June, he’d felt nothing short of pure, euphoric relief.

“Dude, please.”

“No. I’m not getting all dressed up to spend my day off surrounded by people who all hate me,” Taylor says, waving a hand.

Ebs’ eyebrows crease. “But then you can’t spend your day off anywhere.”

Taylor throws a fry at Ebs’ stupid fucking head, but the fucker actually catches it, popping it into his mouth.

“Look,” Ebs says, chewing. “Free food, open bar, all of Syd’s hot college friends…”

Taylor makes a face he hopes doesn’t look like a wince.

“And,” Ebs says, “you’ll get to piss everyone off just by showing up.”

Taylor’s mouth thins. The idea of making everyone angry from his presence alone definitely appeals to his dickish side, which is, conveniently, all of his sides.

“Fine,” Ebs huffs. “Time to pull out the big guns—if you come with me to this wedding, I will watch the next _Naked and Afraid_ marathon that comes on TV with you.”

Oof. Taylor loves _Naked and Afraid._ There’s something so deeply satisfying about watching survivalist nuts starve themselves and cry big, fat miserable tears while he sits on his couch and stuffs his face full of Mexican food and drinks his weight in diet Coke. Whenever Taylor has tried to convince Ebs to give it a shot, Ebs ducks out, making some huge fuss about human empathy. The thought of getting Ebs tucked into the loveseat with massive amounts of take out for an entire day, watching people break down over ants biting them, is nearly dizzying.

“Alright,” Taylor says, wiping his greasy fingers across the front of his pants. “Alright, you’re on.”

—

His mom sends him his good suit and a handwritten note in her pretty, looping cursive. She says she misses him and loves him and to call, soon. He traces her love with his fingertip, and once he’s steamed the rumpled jacket and slacks in the shower, he texts her a picture of him in it. She replies with three big heart emojis, then a text that simply reads, _please comb your hair……_

Once he’s all strapped in, he gives himself one last look over in the mirror. It’s a tight fit considering the last time he wore it was his high school graduation, but his mom was right when she’d made him get the simple, cleancut black suit over the boxy pinstriped monstrosity that Taylor had thought made him look like a jacked mobster. _I lived through the 80s, Taylor,_ she’d said. _Trust me when I say you want something timeless._

There’s a knock on the door, and Taylor tries not to fall over himself to get to it, winging it open as he says, “Yo, we better not hit traffic—”

He stops, because instead of Ebs standing on the other side, it’s Barzy. Taylor’s jaw clenches. Barzy’s always kind of just annoyed him, a pristine exterior of always perfect hair and the strongest jawline Taylor’s seen outside of a movie screen. Underneath all that gloss and tan, though, is nothing but melodramatics. The kind of melodramatics that had the kid leaving at the crack ass of dawn and running back home to Vancouver and ghosting everyone two years ago, save for some bad drunken voicemails mistakenly left on Taylor’s phone. And still, despite shitting the bed so spectacularly, Tito still ran after him, Tito still wanted to be with him, and everyone still loves him. Also, he said Taylor looks like a monkfish. Just seeing his stupid face it enough to make Taylor’s stomach turn sour.

“Hey,” Barzy says, standing there in an impeccably tailored blue suit, like he just stepped out of a catalog. “Ebs had to run Bails to the mall. He accidentally lit his only tie on fire. You’re riding with us.”

Taylor rolls his eyes walking back over to the counter to grab his phone and wallet. “Fucking whatever.”

“Good to see you, too, Hallsy.”

The ride to the venue sucks, Taylor wedged into the backseat between two giant gifts in shiny decorative paper in Tito’s cramped rental, listening to Barzy and Tito screeching along with the radio. They've apparently got something against the AC, because they roll all of the windows down, and whatever slight progress Taylor’d made with his hair is effectively ruined. He spends most of the ride texting Ebs knife emojis.

As much as Tito and Barzy irritate him, when they ditch him in the lobby to grab their seats towards the front of the outdoor ceremony space, Taylor shrugs into himself, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched, looking around at passingly familiar faces. There’s one of those cheesy ass signs up that reads ‘whether you’re here for the groom or bride, after today we’re family, so pick a seat not a side.’ Taylor nearly gags—he’s been here for less than five minutes and he’s already over it. He knew he shouldn’t have come—

“Hey.”

There’s a hand at his elbow, and when Taylor turns, Ebs is there. Ebs is there in a light linen suit, waistcoat fitting snugly and blue tie done up, standing against the lush green expanse of the golf course through the pillars that frame the open doors of the lobby, the colorful bursts of flower arrangements, the sun slathered across everything in a warm glow. Taylor swallows, and says, “Why couldn’t you just lend Josh a tie?”

“Dude.” Ebs gives him a look. “Then _I_ would have no tie.”

“What grown adult man doesn’t own more than one tie?”

“You’re telling me if we go back to your apartment right now I’m gonna find a tie besides the one you’re currently wearing?”

Taylor literally had to get his mom to mail him his only good suit, so instead of answering he sticks his fingers into Ebs’ empty breast pocket and says, “You forgot a pocket square.”

Ebs tucks his chin into his chest, looking down. “Oh. Shit. Whoops.”

Taylor looks around, eyes settling on the vase of flowers dotted with California poppies tucked in the corner near the reception desk. He reaches over and plucks one, along with a sprig of something green, and slides it into Ebs’ pocket, giving it a good pat. “There.”

Ebs smiles, slow and wide, a full bodied summer breeze carried by the orchestra outside playing something sweet and soft, pushing through the blush curtains framing the open doors, Ebs’ hair, Taylor’s ribs.

—7 Years Ago— 

It happens a lot, when all you do is go to parties—the same set of faces keep popping up, like bad songs that sound vaguely familiar on the radio, but usually because they all sound the same. Suddenly some guy you sold adderall to in the bathroom at some basement crust punk show is doing a kegstand at a house party in the valley. Or the girl you did lines with off her Macbook in her cramped dorm room is suddenly at every bar in Santa Monica, dancing on tables and accidentally biting your earlobe in half. So he’s not surprised when he keeps seeing Ebs after that first time—he’s just kind of surprised he keeps looking for Ebs. Even more surprised that Ebs keeps talking to him, like he didn’t puke on Ebs’ sneakers.

Ebs asks, “So how do you know -----?” Taylor can’t remember the name.

“Mutual friends,” he lies, because he doesn’t really have friends down here anymore. 

Ebs doesn’t ask again after that. Instead, he asks other things, like _how he’s doing._ Which is weird, kind of, because Taylor’s not all that nice to the kid, who introduces himself as Jordan, but who gets called Ebs by nearly every person who walks past. He’s actually kind of mean to Ebs, partly because he’s just kind of mean in general, but mostly because every time Taylor looks into those half lidded eyes he spirals right back to that patio in Litore, Ebs rubbing his back and speaking so softly, and he fucking hates it.

He gets a message one day, _hey this is ebs sam gave me ur # hop e thts ok_

Taylor stares at it for a long time, but doesn’t text back.

—

The ceremony’s boring and mushy, and way, way too long with Marty and Sydney reading the vows they wrote themselves as the sun sets behind the arch of peonies. He hears sniffling next to him, and when he glances over, Ebs is turned away. “Bro, are you crying?”

Ebs blubbers, “No, fuck off.”

“You’re such a weenie.”

_“You’re_ such a weenie!”

Everyone goes up in a wave of cheers and applause as the couple at the front of the aisle kisses. They walk back down the flower petal littered path hand and hand with Sydney’s bouquet raised high in the air in victory, and Ebs leans in. His eyes and nose are red, eyelashes dark and clinging together. He smells like magazine inset cologne. “You gonna dance with me later?”

Taylor lets out a loud _pfft_. “Fuck no!”

The last wedding Taylor went to was his cousin’s, back when he was still in high school, trying to sneak champagne with a mouth full of metal, so he forgot how excruciatingly long they are. The ceremony, the cocktail hour, the reception where they’re all held hostage through introductions and first dances and speeches, and all Taylor wants is his goddamn herb roasted Chilean sea bass.

Not to mention everyone here apparently loves Ebs, so he’s being pulled in a million different directions, leaving Taylor to suck down diet Coke at an alarming rate while sandwiched between Cal, who hates him, and Leo, who doesn’t outwardly hate him but is super fucking weird.

Taylor can only sit there wallowing alone behind his half-eaten soggy salad for so long before the pull for a smoke (and like, maybe also a lobotomy) yanks him away from the seemingly endless amount of people. He and his sixth diet Coke find their way out to the balcony that’s been sectioned off by a drawn curtain, a blush of hot summer air pushing in through the sliver of open door. 

Except, when he gets through the heavy French doors, Barzy and Tito are already there, making out against the stone balcony railing as the last flitter of sunset skirts along the ocean. Taylor almost wishes they were doing something worse than kissing sweetly as fireflies rise up from the rose bushes below, because at least then he’d have a reason for feeling like he’s been sucker punched in the gut, jealousy coiling deep.

He wants to say something biting and funny, but all that comes out is, “Jesus Christ.”

There’s a gross popping sound as they break apart, identically horrified faces coloring bright pink.

He gets the feeling that Barzy is annoyed by him, but in a kind of half-bemused way, laughing whenever Taylor says something unapologetically vicious, no matter how bad. Tito, though, fucking hates him, probably because Marty told him everything. Taylor can’t fault Tito for that, but he doesn’t have to just lie there and take it, either.

“There’s no smoking out here,” Tito nearly sneers, if his stupid cartoon face could actually manage to sneer. His eyes flicker to the pack of Marlboros in Taylor’s hand, then back up.

“I’m sure they have a pretty similar policy against dry humping,” Taylor answers, fishing his lighter out of his back pocket as Tito’s face goes from bright pink to deep red. He cups his hand around his mouth, tiny flame flickering

Tito glares. “Can’t you at least vape like a normal person?” 

Taylor wants to say that it just doesn’t burn the same, but can’t think of a way to say it without sounding like a Lana Del Rey song or some shit. So he just shrugs, and blows a nice cloud of smoke right into Tito’s face. “Can’t you keep it in your pants until after cake?”

“Are they serving dinner yet?” Barzy asks, craning his neck. “I got the risotto—it’s gonna be so fire.”

Taylor makes a face. Either at Barzy’s choice of dumb slang, or the fact that his and Tito’s hands are still laced, like they can’t even let go of each other for two seconds. He inhales deeply, to the point where it nearly hurts.

“I’ll go check,” Tito says, looking at Barzy like he didn’t just describe risotto as ‘so fire,’ but like he hung the moon or something equally sappy. That sappy look curdles as Tito pushes past him, and Taylor rolls his eyes. 

He leans over the balcony, looking out across the dark golf course. He’s not sure how a guy who manages a small gym can afford a formal wedding at a country club like this, but maybe Sydney comes from money or something.

“So,” Barzy breaks through his haze, leaning his forearms against the balcony next to Taylor, “can I ask you something?”

Taylor’s gaze slips to the side. He’s going to regret this. “What?”

“Are you here as Ebs’ date?” Barzy says in a weird lilt that makes Taylor’s brow furrow. “Like, you’re his plus one, obviously, but like…”

Taylor’s cigarette drops from his suddenly numb fingers, and he curses under his breath, stamping out the still burning butt with the heel of his shoe, hands smoothing down his jacket to see if there’s a burn mark in the dark fabric.

“So,” Barzy says slowly, “is that a yes, or…?”

“No,” Taylor snaps. “Why the fuck would you—”

“I was just asking,” Barzy holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Jesus, a guy asks a simple question…”

Every last one of Taylor’s hackles goes up at that—yeah, it’s a simple question for Barzy, in his romantic comedy of a relationship, with his always perfect hair and a boyfriend who’s moving across the country to be with him. It’s simple for him because Tito loved him back, because when Barzy ran Tito chased after him. Taylor isn’t some ruddy cheeked kid with a sweet crush leftover from high school, and Ebs isn’t secretly pining after him all these years later. They’ve been knotted and cut and re-knotted so many times the beginnings and ends got lost somewhere between streetlamp lit city corners and neat white lines. When Taylor was too high remember anything aside from a blur of colors, shapes, the gap between Ebs’ teeth. He thinks that’s what annoys him about Barzy the most. Not the good looks, how free he is, how everyone forgave him—it’s that, in the end, Tito loves him back. 

“Hey,” Barzy says, and when Taylor looks up, he says, “Seriously, Hallsy, it’s—”

“Can you shut up?” Taylor stares him down, eyes burning. “This isn’t a cute moment where we have some fucking heart to heart over whatever fairytale bullshit you’ve made up in your head. This is where I tell you to go fuck yourself and you storm off to tell your boyfriend what an asshole I am.”

Inside, a loud, happy cheer rings out.

“Okay.” Barzy swallows. “And you say I’m dramatic. Like, sure, okay.”

“Whatever,” Taylor mutters, shuffling through his pack to get another cigarette.

—7 years ago— 

When Taylor gets arrested the first time, it’s not for the drugs or fighting or anything he expected. Instead, he gets pulled over because he rolls through a stop sign, and when the plates come back they’re flagged as stolen.

Which is how he ends up spending almost two days in a county jail while the police go back and forth with RCMP and his fucking mom over the phone. Ultimately, though, the car is registered and insured under his name, and they have to let him go. He keeps looking over his shoulder, like someone’s going to jump out of the hallway at any second and deport him back to Canada. But they just lead him to where he can collect his wallet, keys and phone, which had been turned off at some point and miraculously has enough juice left to call for a ride because his car, apparently, has been fucking impounded.

Scrolling through, it’s names of people he can’t call. Either because they’re all back in Calgary, and he’s not about to call one of his dealers for a ride from the goddamn police station. He pushes a long breath through his nose, eyes slipping shut, and when he opens them he taps the screen.

A busted station wagon clunks to a stop at the curb, Ebs behind the wheel. Everything is so painfully sharp, from the whiteout sunlight touching everything, the sound of the brakes squealing, to the empty pull deep in his stomach as he hunches his shoulders. He’s alarmingly sober, has been for almost three days now, and he feels it needling at every single nerve ending as he slides into the passenger’s seat. 

He’s expecting for them to just go, but when the car doesn’t budge Taylor opens his eyes to find Ebs staring at him. He should be maybe somewhat grateful that a guy who he’s only met a handful of times and has been nothing short of hostile towards would drop everything to come pick up Taylor’s ass from the police station. Taylor’s eyes feel so dry, so hard to keep open, gut rolling as he bites out, _“What?”_

“You look like pure shit,” Ebs drawls.

“I just spent the night in a fucking cell,” Taylor snaps back, sinking down further into the passenger’s seat. “What’s your excuse?”

Ebs...doesn’t look like pure shit, or even close to it. He looks freshly showered with his hair dried in wispy cowlicks, beard thick and even, in a slept-in looking t-shirt and sweats. He looks like a sweet springtime midmorning in slanted sun; a quiet, soft bloom. Taylor bets he smells like soap, and warm sheets, and—

“Relax,” Ebs says. “I’m just saying. This isn’t even the first time I’ve picked up someone from jail this week, so.”

Taylor’s eyes slide to the side. “Really?”

“Yeah, Bails fell asleep in one of the display tents in Wal-Mart, so they arrested him for trespassing or something.” Ebs shrugs. “He’s fine, though. He apologized to the store and they like, let him go.”

Ebs drops the nickname like Taylor should just know who that is, then Taylor realizes there’s the distinct possibility he _does_ know who that is, but can’t actually remember. 

“Honestly,” Ebs goes on, finally pulling away from the curb, “I should start like, my own driver service. Like Uber, but just for people getting out of jail. Call it Outmate or something.”

Taylor has to turn away to hide his grin, but it’s clear in his voice anyway as he says, “That’s so fucking stupid.”

“Nah,” Ebs dismisses him, “you just lack vision.”

—

When he goes back inside, the happy couple is wrapped up in one another on the dance floor, through a maze of crystal and peony drenched tables, lanterns lit with fake candles and pretty white string lights. The stage where the band was when Taylor left the room is vacant, a pair of stools and two microphones pushed to the front, and suddenly there’s clapping. When Taylor turns further, Ebs is walking on stage, waistcoat and jacket long gone, tie and the collar of his shirt undone with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, guitar in hand.

Taylor’s eyebrows creep up. He’s watched Ebs mess around on his acoustic enough times, strumming familiar melodies from old rock songs for hours and hours on his bed while Taylor sprawled out across the old beanbag chair, listening. He’s never seen Ebs perform in front of people, cheeks so red Taylor can see it even from what feels like miles away.

Someone comes out behind him in a swish of chiffon, one of the bridesmaids with a flower crown firmly on her glossy blonde head. She walks up to one of the microphones and, in a voice that sounds like honeyed afternoons sipping lemonade on a front porch, says, “Hi everyone, I’m Jenna. Um, so Jordan and I have been practicing this song for the bride and groom. We hope you like it.” She pulls away to tuck her hair behind her ears and then surges forward again, adding, “oh, it’s called “Iris” by, uh, the Goo Goo Dolls. You probably know it.”

Ebs adjusts the mic down so he can sit on his stool before he plucks a few stings. It feels like they’re tethered to Taylor’s ribs, vibrating deep in his chest as Ebs starts strumming. Jenna leans in, her soft, practiced voiced floating through the speakers. “And I’d give up forever to touch you…”

Taylor makes a face—what a fucking cheeseball song. He knows Ebs has spectacularly bad taste in music, but seriously. 

When the chorus hits, Ebs leans in with her, harmonizing low and easy. Ebs doesn’t have the most amazing voice, but he has a steady depth and can hold a tune well enough to back Jenna up. Taylor wishes Ebs were so incredible it could justify the way Taylor feels like it hurts just to look at him sometimes. But he’s just Ebs, dorky and unshaven and weird and funny when he doesn’t mean to be, and somehow it knocks all the breath straight out of Taylor’s lungs.

When the song ends they get a standing ovation, Casey sticking his fingers in his mouth and whistling right in Taylor’s ear. As the DJ picks up again, the ballroom is suddenly suffocatingly hot, headache throbbing in Taylor’s temple— god, he hates this shit. He hates this shit, and Someone’s left their melting vodka cranberry next to Taylor’s plate, and he watches a bead of condensation run down the glass.

Ebs crashes down into the chair next to him. “Hey.”

Taylor leans back, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked. “Wasn’t that song written for like, a fucking Nic Cage movie about vampires or some shit?”

“Shut up,” Ebs says, bringing his champagne glass to his lips. “Everyone loves that song, and if you say you don’t you’re a liar.”

Ebs usually doesn’t care if Taylor gives him shit. Ebs likes what he likes, not trying to fit in but not trying to be different, either. There’s something, though, that pulls at his his words with a thread of tension. Taylor sits forward. “When the hell did you even practice that?”

Ebs shrugs, shoulders relaxing. “We met up a couple times. Mostly Facetime, though. It wasn’t ideal, but, y’know.”

The warm glow of the lanterns flicker, long shadows from Ebs’ eyelashes cast across his cheeks, refracted bits of rainbow snagging on his face from where the light catches on the crystals dripping from the centerpiece. He wonders if Ebs is lying. If Ebs has been more than just meeting up with her. He’s always been kind of weird and secretive about his hookups, which, okay, it’s not like he owes Taylor any explanation, and it’s not like Taylor’s paraded any of his (less than stellar) relationships around. But Taylor can’t get the way they harmonized out of his head. They way they looked together up on stage, her hair coming undone and his sleeves rolled up.

Taylor opens his mouth, beating down the ugly impulse to lie and say they sucked, even as a joke. Nothing comes out.

Ebs turns, looking back out over the dance floor, and then he asks, “Wanna dance?”

The wedding DJ gods take mercy on him by blasting House of Pain, and he and Ebs fucking lose it on the dance floor. He’s pretty sure he sees Tito filming them at some point, but he can’t bring himself to care when he’s knocking into Ebs and almost taking out the flower girl with an errant elbow.

—

Marty and Sydney cut the cake, a towering monstrosity of buttercream flowers that Cal eyes from a dark corner with single-minded intensity as they smash pieces into each other’s mouths. Ebs hands him a plate and Taylor sighs, “Yo, you know how I feel about cake.”

“Just try it.” Ebs nudges it closer to him. “It’s good—Clutter made it.”

“Cake is a waste of dessert.”

“You’re a waste—eat the fucking cake, Hallsy.”

Taylor stabs at the dark chocolate sponge with his fork, scooping up a heavy amount of filling and frosting before shoveling it into his mouth. He chews, and through a mouthful says, “Like wet cardboard.”

“Oh my god.”

Taylor swallows. “Man, if I ever get married, I’m not paying like six hundred dollars for a cake—it’s gonna be like, a mountain of Timbits. And like, those little danishes. Maybe a giant KitKat.”

Ebs snorts, chewing. “Who the fuck’s gonna marry your ass?”

“Uh, literally anyone,” Taylor says, pointing with his fork. “Like, I’m gonna have to get married and divorced so many times, just to meet the demands of the people.”

“Uh-huh.” Ebs rolls his eyes. “Sure. Okay. Sounds legit.”

“Don’t be jealous, babe,” Taylor says, concentrating on mushing his cake into paste. “I’ll marry you first, if it’ll make you feel better.”

He only looks up when Ebs starts choking, probably because cake is so useless and dry and borderline inedible. Taylor smacks him across the back, slightly harder than necessary until Ebs shoves him away.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Ebs says, but he’s grinning that big grin he only lets out from time to time in place of the lazy half-shrug of a smile he usually has on. It’s huge, cheesy, the gap between his teeth as obvious as ever, and god, Taylor could stare at it for hours.

—6 years ago— 

Taylor’s ‘apartment’ (if it could even be called that) gets raided when he’s out getting food on the boardwalk with Ebs one night, and the building is essentially going to be condemned. He loses his spare sneakers when the city seals the building, but Taylor keeps most of his shit in his backpack anyway, so. It’s fine.

He’s got enough cash from selling pills that he can get a gym membership, a locker to keep his shit in and a place to shower. Most nights he sleeps in his car. Other nights, he sleeps with Ebs.

Ebs has a room in his friend Marty’s house, decently sized with a double bed in Litore maybe a five minute walk from the beach and a ten minute walk to Main Street. Everything is well worn and frayed at the edges, smells like overly perfumed deodorant and low tide when the wind is really coming up off the water. But it’s way better than the backseat of Taylor’s fucking 1999 Chevy Malibu. 

There are enough people coming in and out of the house that Taylor doesn’t feel too bad about essentially living there rent free. A lot of nights, he and Ebs don’t even make it home, crashing on friends of friends’ couches, floors, porch swings, too fucked up to tell which way is up, much less which way home. So it’s fine. It’s not even a thing.

He doesn’t even realize Ebs knows something is up until he says, “Hey, I’m catering a thing tonight—not sure if I’ll be home in time, so. If the door’s locked, here.”

He drops a key into the palm of Taylor’s hand. It weighs as much as an anchor.

He tries to sound normal as he scoffs, “Barry’s Burgers caters?”

“Nah, my buddy works for a restaurant in Beverly Hills, and he puts my name in whenever they’re short staffed.” Ebs shrugs. “It’s all richass people who give crazy tips, and I need the cash if I’m gonna fly home and see my family this Christmas.”

Christmas. Right. The realization carves straight into his gut, sitting hard and heavy. It’s so easy to forget that time even passes when every single day is the same and the seasons never change. He pockets the key, and accepts the burger Ebs sneaks him from the grill.

—

The guests are taken on golf carts up to the hotel, laughing into the night with dresses hiked up and ties long forgotten, Taylor hanging off the back of one with Tito, Barzy and Ebs cackling up front. They burst through the shiny lobby, nearly knocking over a potted plant by the check in desk before swiping their keycards and heading off, Barzy and Tito stumbling over each other to get to their room.

Taylor and Ebs’ room is tucked at the end of the hallway, a single taupe queen bed in the middle of taupe wallpaper and taupe carpet and taupe curtains. It’s probably meant to look sleek and modern, all clean lines and sharp edges with chrome fixtures, but it kind of looks like a prison cell. Taylor would know.

Ebs shrugs. “Whatever.”

They’ve fallen asleep together, wrapped up in each other, so many times at this point that Taylor’s lost count. But never in a hotel before—a nice hotel with chocolate on the pillows and a glass door minifridge stocked with mini bottles of top shelf booze and artisan sodas flavored with like, elderberries and shit. 

“We gotta try one,” Ebs says, turning a bottle over in his hand.

“For ten dollars?” Taylor scoffs, kicking off his shoes. “For that much money it better pop it’s own top and pour itself.”

“Oh, and _I’m_ the cheap one.”

“Yeah, ‘cause _you’re_ the one who tried to trick the meter with old Chuck E. Cheese tokens the other day.”

“And remind me, Hallsy, exactly who had an extra two dollars to spend at the movies that day?”

Taylor rolls his eyes, flopping back over the bed. His hands undo his fly, and he groans, “Christ, I wanna friggin’ burn these clothes.

“It’s your fault for wearing middle school graduation pants.”

“Fuck off, they’re from high school. I’ve been the same height since I was seventeen.”

“Yeah, but your ass has definitely grown like, at least six sizes.”

Taylor snorts, “You been checking out my ass, bud?”

There’s a pause, one that hangs between them for just a beat too long. Taylor picks his head up, looking down his body to where Ebs has pivoted away from him, turning over the room service menu in his hands, slowly, over and over, like he’s not really looking at it. 

“I’m gonna shower,” Ebs finally says, heading towards the bathroom. “Try not to trash the place.”

“Whatever, mom.” Taylor listens to feet pad softly over the carpet, the click of the door shutting, the hiss of water hitting tile. He opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling for a moment before bolting upright and grabbing his keycard from the nightstand.

—

Taylor ends up down by the pool, pants rolled up to his knees, the surreal glow uplighting everything in an otherworldly blue as he sits down on the edge and slips his feet in. It forces grunt out of him, and he slides the cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, the lighter after.

“Don’t think you’re supposed to do that here.”

Taylor turns, Marty coming in through the gate in an open robe, basketball shorts on underneath. Taylor lights his cigarette anyway, turning back to stare out over the pool. He feels Marty walk over, around the edge of the water before settling down right next to Taylor. He makes a gimme motion with his hand, and Taylor cocks an eyebrow, but hands over the pack and lighter anyway.

He wants to say something like _aren’t you supposed to be banging your new wife?_ But that would be rude. So he asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be banging your new wife?”

Marty exhales, smoke blooming from his mouth. “She passed out like the second we got to the room. Getting married? Fucking exhausting, man, and I wasn’t even wearing a corset. The only thing either of us ate today was cake.”

“Waste of a dessert,” Taylor mutters around his cigarette, because he can’t help himself.

“That’s exactly what I said!” Marty says. “I wanted to order two hundred of those little lava things from Domino's. Those are pretty much the only acceptable form of cake, but apparently it wasn’t _fancy_ enough.”

Those lava cakes are good, by virtue of the fact that they’re essentially brownies filled with molten fudge, so they’re not even kind of cakey. Taylor can respect that. He takes a long drag and says on the exhale, “Congrats, by the way, or whatever.”

A snort. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Seriously,” Taylor goes on, “as far as weddings go, it wasn’t like, a completely abysmal time suck.”

Marty actually laughs at that. Over the years, they’ve gotten better at being around each other, considering the first time Ebs brought him back around Marty tried to fight him on the front lawn and a neighbor called the cops. Marty tolerates him, lets him come in and out of the house, but usually not without some snide comment about checking his wallet. 

“Pretty harsh words for a guy who wasn’t invited,” Marty says, grin cut with an edge.

“Yeah well, take it up with Ebs.” Taylor snubs his butt on on the brick edge, leaning back on his hands. “I told him you didn’t want me there, but he begged me to come. It was actually fucking embarrassing.”

Marty’s eyes snap towards him, sliced with the glow from the pool lights. “Story of your life, huh?”

It stings a bit, but Taylor swallows it, because if he doesn’t they’ll end up talking about Ebs. Taylor can’t do that, not without feeling like a flashing neon sign that reads HEY ASSHOLES GUESS WHO I’M IN LOVE WITH. He glances down at his carton, watches the last two cigarettes fall from side to side as he shakes the box, then stuffs it back into his shirt pocket.

Marty doesn’t seem to care what Taylor can or can’t do, though, because he keeps going. “He did actually ask me if it was okay that you come. He almost made like, a full human expression when I said yes.”

Taylor looks down at his feet in the pool, distorted under the surface, like they’re not actually a part of him. “Why did you?”

“‘Cause,” Marty lets out a long sigh, “it made him happy.”

Taylor wishes Marty would just go back to insulting him instead.

“And you’re clearly not,” Marty shifts, drawing his robe around him, “as bad as you were, back then. Like I know you were still drinking for a while, but even then you weren’t that bad.”

Taylor had to stop drinking when drinking led back to pills, a bad two month skid a couple years ago. The scariest part was how easy it was to hide when he had a job and an apartment and friends, how careful he was about his lies, how meticulous he was about when, where, and how he could get fucked up. Like if he was careful enough, it wouldn’t get that bad again. Like he could control it. But those were the same thoughts he had when he first moved down here—it’s not that bad, he’s fine, it’s what everyone else is doing, it’s fine, he’s fine. Now he just chain smokes and drinks way too much diet Coke and falls asleep in Ebs’ bed.

“And he wouldn’t admit it, but,” Marty exhales one last breath of smoke. “He really wanted you to hear him play.”

They sit in silence, pool jets bubbling softly, crickets and frogs in the distance.

“Does that mean you finally forgive me?” Taylor asks, because fuck it, he might as well.

“Fuck no,” Marty laughs, small and brittle.

He scowls, flapping a hand over towards the lit hotel room windows. “Everyone forgave Mat when he literally ran away and ghosted everyone.”

“Barz did some dumb shit,” Marty concedes with a nod. “But he was eighteen, and in his first real relationship, and he freaked out. Also he made like, this huge dramatic production of apologizing to literally everyone. You,” he points at Taylor, “stole $300 from the guy who let you literally sleep in his bed so you weren’t homeless, to go fucking get high.”

“It wasn't—” Taylor tries, but stops, leans forward, because he can’t look at Marty anymore. He kind of wants to just slide into the pool, hold himself under the surface for as long as he can stand it, but then he’d have to walk back up to the room like that. It might be worth it just to avoid this conversation.

Marty says, “I don’t think you know how shitty that was for him. He like, called hospitals and shelters and jails just to see if there was some chance you were there, or if anyone knew where you were.”

Taylor stares down at the water, eyes burning.

“And like, did you ever say sorry?” Marty asks. “Did your handwritten apology get lost in the mail? And fuck me, dude, like personally I don’t give a shit if you say sorry to me. It’s him. Even if he never says anything...like, he has to want that. More than anything.”

When Taylor was twelve, he went horseback riding on his aunt’s farm in Saskatchewan and got thrown on the trail. As his small body lifted into the air, looking at the ground, a split moment suspended in time and clarity where he thought, as naturally and calmly as blinking, _this is going to hurt._ He blacked out on impact, couldn’t remember the pain of his leg breaking in three places, or being airlifted to the nearest hospital. But he remembers waking up, seeing his mangled leg. He remembers rehabbing for long, awful months, not being able to play hockey that year, the phantom ache in his joints long after it healed.

He stares up at the window he thinks might be his and Ebs’ room, the light still on.

“Whelp,” Marty grunts, wobbling up onto his feet. “That’s enough Degrassi shit for one night. I’m going to bed.”

“Have fun not having sex,” Taylor says, because he has to try and get one last dig in, to make himself feel a little normal.

There’s a foot in the middle of his back, and before Taylor can even make a move he’s being shoved off the ledge, right into the deep end. He whips through the surface, gasping and hacking, just in time to blink the chlorine from his eyes and see Marty standing over him, smirking. “Right back at’cha.”

—6 years ago— 

He gets rolled on a bad deal, split lip and a bad knock to the back of his head that makes him see double (triple, quadruple, whatever comes after that) for a split second before the blows to his ribs make him curl in on himself, trying to protect his head with his hands. It’s not that bad though, really, it’s just hurts to like...breathe, or whatever.

He manages to limp his way to his car and drive to Ebs’ place after, parking across the street and sliding through the kitchen door before tiptoeing upstairs as slowly as possible. Marty’s in his room, the TV flashing blue light under his bedroom door, the distant sound of a regurgitated laugh track, and Taylor holds his breath as he slowly moves down the hallway.

He throws back a couple of oxys and lays down on Ebs’ bed, waiting for everything to stop hurting. It doesn’t matter if he saves them or sells them or takes them at this point—it’s not gonna be enough to make up for what he owes. God he’s so fucked. He turns his face into a pillow and breathes in deep, the lump at the back of his throat threatening to force everything out all at once. He sniffs, a small, pitiful whimper echoing at the back of his thoughts, _Mom…_

Taylor wakes up later to the bed dipping, and when his eyes crack open the light outside the window is pale, Ebs a moving silhouette through watery darkness. He groans, “The fuck...time issit…”

“Fucking 5am,” Ebs answers. “Move over.”

Taylor moves until he’s against the wall, Ebs sliding in next to him in an undershirt that smells like sweat and greasy food. “Give me some blankets.”

“Fuck off,” Taylor croaks. “’m cold.”

“You’re always cold,” Ebs slurs, wrangling enough of the edge of the comforter to tug it over himself. He’s blissfully, amazingly hot, and Taylor burrows closer without thinking. He’s awake, and mostly sober, and he wishes he was neither. When he blinks his eyes open, Ebs is staring at him in the half-darkness, and his breath smells like booze.

A hand comes up, gripping the hem of Taylor’s hood, and Ebs leans in, kissing him. Every stitch of Taylor’s body threatens to shake apart at the taste of Ebs against warm sheets. There’s a hitched breath, a slow slide of tongue, and Taylor's lip stings, cut reopening and no, no fuck he doesn’t want it like this. He can’t do this.

He presses a hand to Ebs’ chest, pushing him back just enough. Glazed eyes meet Taylor’s own, calloused fingertips reaching up. “Your lip…”

Taylor sucks it into his mouth, presses the sleeve of his hoodie against it. “S’fine.”

Ebs sags against the mattress, eyes sliding shut. “‘M sorry…”

“Don’t…” don’t apologize, don’t kiss me again, don’t give me your key, don’t let me stay in your bed. Taylor swallows, the electric copper taste heavy on his tongue. “Ebs—”

But Ebs is already asleep, his arm draped over Taylor’s chest. Minutes tick by, the sun steadily creeping in, Ebs’ snores getting louder and worse the way they do when he’s drunk. Taylor slides out, untangling himself and slipping off the edge of the bed. He rubs at his face, feeling every second of lost sleep down to his atoms, thinks maybe he should take another pill, something to just relax the jittering energy rattling around in his nerves.

He reaches for his bag when he sees it. A wad of cash on the desk next to Ebs’ phone. Easily three hundred dollars.

Taylor doesn’t think. He just takes it.

—

Taylor floats there for a while, on his back staring up at the stars. Or, the very few stars he can see. Even up north, away from LA, there’s still too much light pollution to really see anything. He misses that, about back home. He misses the cold, too. The seasons, even the snow. He thinks if things would’ve been different, if he’d met Ebs back in Canada somehow. He thinks about Ebs all wrapped up in layers and layers, nose and cheeks pink, and promptly shoves his head back under the water for a good thirty seconds to try and wash the thoughts away.

The girl at the desk runs and gets him a towel when he traipses in through the lobby soaking wet a few minutes later, dripping all over the marble floor. “Are you okay?” she keeps asking. Taylor says yes, says he’s fine, says everything’s fine.

He gets off the elevator on his floor and starts to make his way down the hallway, a door opening just as he rounds the corner, Barzy standing there with sheets pooled dangerously low around his waist, sliding a tray from room service out onto the floor. Taylor can see the long red marks raked down his back, and when he stands up and locks eyes with Taylor, he makes no move to hide them or the bruises sucked along his collarbones. He just cocks an eyebrow and asks, “The fuck happened to you?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Taylor says. “What, you get mauled by a bear or something?”

Barzy flushes and yanks the door shut. Taylor rolls his eyes—at least someone in this hotel is getting laid.

When he gets back to the room, Ebs is on the bed, showered and soft in his t-shirt and boxers, reading a brochure about fun things to do in the area. When he looks up, a laugh bursts out of him. “Holy shit, did you fall in?”

“Something like that,” Taylor says, throwing his shoes down by the door and dropping the towel from the front desk, his hands working down the line of buttons on his shirt.

“Did you know there’s a skydiving place not far from here?” Ebs asks, turning back to his brochure. “I bet there’s a Groupon for it.”

“Bro, you won’t even get on the ferris wheel in Santa Monica with me.”

Ebs frowns at the glossy picture of smiling people. “Well, maybe I’m trying to face my fears. Exposure therapy, or whatever.”

Taylor snorts. “Sure. Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Ebs says. “Would you go with me?”

Taylor shucks off his pants and boxers in one go, reaching for the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He hops onto the bed, settling back against the mountain of pillows with a sigh, feeling exhausted suddenly. “Sure,” he says around a yawn, “I’ll go with you.”

There’s a pause, and when he cracks an eye open, Ebs gaze jerks away. “I brought extra pj’s, if you want.”

Taylor looks down at where his robe has flapped open on one side, exposing his thigh all the way up to the v of his hip, the belt lazily knotted across his tummy before opening up again, most of his chest exposed. He was just standing naked in front of Ebs literally not even two minutes ago, but somehow this feels more...revealing.

“I don’t know,” Taylor drawls. “You think your scrawny petite pajama bottoms will fit my fat ass?”

Ebs leans over, pulling the backpack up onto the bed. “God willing, Hallsy. God willing.”

—

“It was nice, wasn’t it?” Ebs asks after they’ve turned the side table lamps out, room cloaked in complete black save for the glowing numbers of the alarm clock. His voice is soft, just shy of a whisper, “The ceremony...the vows and stuff. It was really nice.”

Taylor lets out a breath of a laugh, smiling half into his pillow. “You cried like a baby.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Oh my god,” Ebs groans, and Taylor feels the sheets shift. Ebs is facing him now, their knees bumping under the covers. “Admit it was nice.”

“Never.”

“Come on.”

“Love’s not real and weddings are a scam.”

“You don’t believe that,” Ebs says. Then, a beat later, “Do you?”

Taylor lets out a big sigh, expelling all the breath in his lungs. “I...Christ, I don’t know.”

It’s the worst possible moment for the kiss to pop into his head. He wishes he’d been more fucked up at the time, so he couldn’t remember the exact shape and feel of Ebs’ lips against his. He turns onto his back, throat tight. The smell of chlorine is still heavy on his skin, in his hair, and in the dark it’s the only thing he can focus on to keep himself from leaning into the warmth radiating off the body next to him. 

“You don’t ever think about how crazy it is?” Ebs’ voice is starting to get thick with sleep, words dragging together. “Like...how many trillions of tiny choices had to happen for two people to come into existence, and then through all the bullshit, somehow find and choose each other. Over everything. Like, what if Marty decided to go get a bagel one day and the chain of events set off from that moment is exactly what led him to Sydney. What if without that bagel they would’ve never met?” 

All of the exhaustion from his body is zapped out, Ebs’ words burning through his wildfire memories. Taylor forces his eyes shut, trying to will his heart to beat slower. He snorts, “So, what, it’s like bagel destiny?” 

“Nah, destiny’s all, y’know, destined and shit,” Ebs says, firm, like he needs Taylor to listen. “It’s all choices and coincidences and timing...crazy stuff like that.”

Taylor stares out into the darkness of their room. Ebs gets like this sometimes, fixated and rambling, almost like he’s waiting for Taylor to tell him when to stop. It’s one of his favorite Ebs usually, but this conversation feels like it’s pressing down on Taylor’s chest, trying to force the words out.

Moments slip by. When Taylor blinks blearily at the clock, it’s almost 2am. He whispers, “Ebs?”

He hears nothing but deep, even breaths in response. Taylor turns onto his side, facing Ebs again, moving just a little closer. He knows exactly what Ebs looks like asleep, has seen it so many times, but he wishes he could see it again right now. He wishes he could see it every night. He’s not sure exactly when he falls asleep, only that it takes a long time.

—

They check out the next day, and he has to suffer through fancy ass brunch in the hotel’s restaurant with Tito and Barzy eating food off each other’s plates, dressed like they just rolled out of a frat house and aren’t surrounded by vases of fresh flowers, an honest to god harpist playing softly in the corner. Taylor didn’t even think they really existed outside of like, cartoon heaven.

He let his fork clatter against the plate, hissing, “Anthony.”

Tito doesn’t even bother looking up from his eggs. “Mm.”

“That’s my calf you’re tenderly stroking with your foot,” Taylor says, “not Barzy’s.”

“Oh.” Tito lifts up the tablecloth to peek. “In that case...”

He drives his heel into the top of Taylor’s toes, and Taylor swears, grabbing a butter knife with the full intention of probably stabbing Tito in the eye or something.

“Settle down, children,” Ebs says behind his newspaper, like he doesn’t have a normal working phone where he can skim news headlines.

“He started it,” Taylor hisses, glaring across the table. Tito smiles back at him, too saccharine to match the glint in his eyes.

“I don’t care who started it,” Ebs says, turning a page, “I’ll finish it.”

Meanwhile Barzy’s dying like it’s the funniest thing in the world, which, fuck him, it’s not, and his high pitched cackle is stabbing right into Taylor’s temple. He literally can’t wait until they’re back in New York. He’s counting down the days.

—6 years ago— 

“You took it.”

Taylor looks up from where he’s been scrolling through his phone at the kitchen table, waiting for Ebs, and Marty is standing on the opposite side. Taylor’s a big guy, not intimidated easily by boardwalk bros who think they’re on an episode of Jersey Shore or whatever, and Marty’s always been dimpled, laughing in the background of the house. But now he’s looming, stone faced and way too grim for a sunny midmorning. 

Taylor’s heart hammers against his chest, throbbing down to his fingertips. “What?”

“That’s your car out front?” Marty asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Before Taylor even answers, he cuts back in, “The one I saw Sunday morning peeling down the street like a bat out of hell, the same morning Ebs comes downstairs saying he can’t find his catering tips?”

A frozen burn pinpricks through Taylor’s entire body, and it’s all he can feel before numbness. His mouth won’t move, won’t form the words, a denial, a confession, anything. 

“Three hundred fucking dollars,” Marty says, even, almost soft, and somehow it’s more terrifying than if he was raising his voice. “And you just stole it, after he lets you stay here, after everything—you fucking just take it.”

Taylor can’t breathe, throat constricting as tight as it can, eyes burning, refusing to blink. He can’t move.

“You know he was gonna use it to go home, right? To see his family for the first time in two years,” Marty’s words lash through him, slicing clean through Taylor’s flushed skin. Finally, he cracks, shaking his head and sneering, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Everything, he can’t say. Just sits there, choking.

Marty finally starts to raise his voice. “Ebs is one of the—he fucking—he trusted you. And for what? Fucking _pills?”_

Taylor flinches.

“You think I can’t tell when someone’s strung out?” Marty asks. His jaw clenches, eyes red. “You think Ebs doesn’t know?”

That hurts, somehow, worse than everything else. Like a physical blow that makes Taylor’s eyes burn and water, blinking hard to will it away. Then, the flood of anger comes, barreling through on a tail end of the shaky adrenaline already coursing through him.

“So you’re not gonna say anything,” Marty says, not a question. “You’re just gonna fucking sit there.”

Taylor’s gaze snaps up, hard. “Fuck you.”

Marty doesn’t reel back, or flinch or wince or show that he even heard Taylor. His voice goes low again, and he leans his hands on the edge of the table and just says, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

Taylor stands so fast he knocks the chair over, spinning on his heel and barreling out the front door. For the next few days he fucks this guy up Laguna, home for winter break while his parents are in Denver or some shit, he can’t remember. They play house and get high and Taylor has a bed to sleep in every night and it’s fine. It’s fine.

Ebs blows up his phone that first day, then it trickles off after Taylor doesn’t answer. Eventually, Taylor drives back down to Litore, sleeps in his car, counts the rest of his pills and hides them in different places in his bag, his locker at the gym, in the glove compartment, between the seats. Over the next few weeks he finds most of them, but it gets harder and harder to remember where he put them, less of them to find.

—

“Ebs,” Taylor says, “You gotta let go at some point.”

Ebs, if anything, just squeezes his arms tighter about Barzy and Tito, mushing their faces together in a way that looks kind of painful. Taylor rolls his eyes, pulling his hat down over his face so none of the passersby in the airport terminal can see him. It’s been a long fucking summer, and he feels like he’s spent every day as their fourth wheel, which Taylor didn’t even was possible, considering wheels are supposed to come in pairs, but apparently he was wrong.

“Call me,” Ebs says, “When you touch down. And when you get home.”

“Okay dad,” Tito laughs, patting at Ebs’ back. 

“And when you get to New York,” Ebs reminds them, pulling away. “Barzy, look after the kid, will you?”

Barzy, like a weenie, actually tears up, lips pressed together in a thin line as he nods and lets Ebs pull him into another hug.

“Oh my god,” Taylor groans. “Come on, man, _let’s go.”_

Barzy lifts his head, squinting. “I think Hallsy’s feeling left out.”

“No,” Taylor says, backing up, “No the fuck I am not—”

“C’mon, babe.” Tito links arms with Ebs, the three of them joined in front of him, moving closer like a fucking hyrdra. “You know you want all up in this.”

“Yo, get awa—” Taylor’s cut off by three grown men surrounding him in a long, squeezing embrace. It’s...warm, and kind of nice. Or would be, if Taylor wasn’t clenching so hard. Ebs is in the center, tucked right against his chest with his head under Taylor’s chin. He grits out. “I hate you. All of you.”

They squeeze tighter.

—

The drive back from the airport is quiet. Taylor takes the keys without being asked, keeps the radio volume low as they inch away from LAX, and whenever he chances a glance at Ebs, he’s staring out the window, face as blank as ever. Sometimes—not often, but every once in a while—Taylor does wish he could actually be a decent human being who’s emotionally equipped enough to deal with his friend being sad, instead of just loudly wondering what the fucking deal is with black pickup trucks never using their goddamn turn signal. “Bro,” Ebs says, finally looking at him, “_you_ never fucking use your turn signals.”

But the weeks start to roll by, even though it never feels like fall down under palmtrees. He might be kind of oblivious about most things, but he can’t miss the way Ebs sometimes takes a turn to head towards the basement steps and call down for Tito when he remembers at the last second that there’s no one down there anymore. How he’s constantly checking his phone. How he saves all of Tito and Barzy’s Snaps and shows them to Taylor when they’re vegging out on the sofa.

It’s kind of a bummer, so much so that when he finally gets Ebs to sit down for the much awaited all day Naked and Afraid marathon, Taylor can’t even fully enjoy when Clayton gets violently sick from eating bad snake meat.

“How do people actually enjoy this shit?” Ebs asks, wincing at the TV as Clayton dry heaves by the fire that took three days to build. He’s curled up on the far end of Taylor’s couch, unwashed hair stuffed under a backwards snapback, the sleeves of his hoodie so long they hang over his hands, knees drawn up to his chest. He seems small it a way that makes Taylor feel on edge.

“Dude, I’ve seen you watch hours of those shows where people lose their goddamn minds over storage units,” Taylor says through a mouthful of Bugles. “This is way, way better.”

Ebs rubs at an eye with the back of his hand. “Whatever you say, Halls.”

Taylor pauses mid-chew, staring. Normally Ebs would snap back at him, or at least drive his foot into Taylor’s side, anything but sink further into the couch cushions with his eyes slipping shut, like keeping them open is just too much effort. His eyelashes are dark, stark against skin that’s too pale for SoCal. Taylor thinks he should say something. He should—

“Motherfucker!” Miles shouts from the door, dropping his backpack to the floor. “Those better not be my Bugles!”

—

The first call Taylor makes is to his mom, telling her he’s not coming home for Christmas this year. He can practically feel her vibrating with nerves through the receiver, so he says, “I gotta help Ebs out with something, okay?”

She loves Ebs almost as much as she distrusts Taylor. He thinks they secretly chat on Facebook behind his back. After a too-long pause she says, “You know, everyone would love to meet him sometime soon. Maybe Easter?”

Taylor is absolutely not fucking unpacking that, but takes the W anyway.

The second call he makes is to Tito, who, predictably, ignores him. And proceeds to ignore him the second, third, and fourth time he calls until, finally, Taylor has no other option.

“Mat,” Taylor barks when Barzy picks up after the first ring, “Put your dumbass boyfriend on.”

“Uh,” Barzy balks. “Sorry, Beau can’t come to the phone right now, he’s...dead.”

Taylor cocks an eyebrow at the nearly empty contents of his fridge, wedging his phone between his shoulder and jaw. “He’s dead?”

“And he has,” Barzy searches, “explosive...diarrhea…”

“He’s dead,” Taylor deadpans, “and he has explosive diarrhea. At the same time.”

“Yeah it’s like,” Barzy says, “some crazy medical miracle or something.”

“Uh-huh.” Taylor sucks at his teeth. “Put him on the phone.”

“...yeah okay, one sec.”

He hears a muffled argument, voices hissing back and forth, too distant for Taylor to make out except for bits of heated words, before Tito’s voice pierces though his ear, clear as day, _“What?”_

“Me and Ebs are coming for Christmas,” Taylor tells him. “So buy some blow up mattresses or something.”

Tito sounds wary, “Why couldn’t Ebs just ask me himself?”

“Because.” Taylor slams his fridge shut, arm full of leftovers. “He doesn’t know. It’s gonna be a surprise. Also, no one’s asking—I’m telling you we’re coming, like it or not.”

“You’re,” Tito asks, “surprising him? By bringing him to see us?”

“I know, it’s seems unbelievable that anyone would want to spend the holiday season with two guys whose collective brainpower couldn’t turn on a plug-in air freshener,” Taylor says, flipping the top off the apple juice. “Yet, here we are, cast out in a sea of mysteries.”

“Dude, you have the IQ a fucking leaf, shut up.”

But he doesn’t say no. 

He makes the third call to his job—the holiday season in yachting is kind of slow, even for Southern Cali, so it’s not really a problem. Plus, Rico likes him and knows Taylor hasn’t requested time off like, ever.

The fourth call he makes is to Barry’s.

“I need you to put in a vacation request for Ebs,” he says into the receiver. “And also not tell him.”

Which earns him Brock’s lazy drawl of, “What’s in it for me?”

Taylor sighs around his cigarette. “What do you want?”

Which is how he ends up indebted to Brock for two-hundred dollars worth of nachos, paid off in weekly installments. Not ideal, but Taylor feels like he negotiated it down pretty well considering Brock’s initial request was one of those $400 Lifetime Pasta Passes from the Olive Garden.

The last thing left to do is to fill up his gas tank, throw some snacks from 7-Eleven in the back, and go get Ebs.

Taylor parks at the corner and comes around to the side door, slipping the spare key from under the ceramic monkey by the garbage cans. The second he’s in, he’s immediately met with the sight of Marty sitting (probably) naked at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of something. He’s probably up to open the gym soon.

“Uh,” Taylor says, eyes darting to the side where Ebs would usually be to act as a buffer, but it’s 5am and all that’s there is muted darkness. “Hi?”

Marty rubs at his eyes, wedding band glinting in the one overhead light above the table that only heightens the interrogation feel. “Is it illegal? Whatever you’re about to do?”

Taylor blinks. “Ideally, no?”

“That’s really not the reassurance I was looking for.”

Taylor shoots him a look. “Even if I did reassure you, would you believe me?”

Marty blinks slowly, eyes sleep swollen with pillow creases still across his face before he crumbles in front of Taylor, thumping his forehead against the table. “Fair enough.”

Taylor slips out into the living room, rounding up the stairs with light footsteps, down the narrow hallway. Ebs, like a fucking weirdo, can sleep with his door wide open, and when Taylor walks into his room, the barely lightened sky outside has broken through the window, city lights blinking in the distance, a horizone waking up. He stands over Ebs, his sleeping face half mashed into a pillow, snoring open mouthed. Taylor’s heart hammers against his chest, the way it does sometimes whenever he gets to look at Ebs for too long. He could almost stand there and watch him sleep forever.

Instead he flips the lights on, grabbing the half full water bottle sitting on top of the dresser, and pours it all over Ebs’ face.

Ebs doesn’t jerk awake, or flail out of bed, or freak out. Instead, he sits up slowly, eyes still closed. He’s not even mad, just genuinely confused. _“What?”_

Taylor whips a backpack at him. “Dude, get up, we gotta go.”

Ebs’ eyes slit open, and he rubs a hand over his dripping face. “The fuck’re you talking about…”

“We gotta go,” Taylor stresses. “C’mon, get up, get packed.”

“Go _where?”_ Ebs rasps, pushing a hand through his hair and looking at Taylor, utterly betrayed.

“New York,” Taylor says, pulling open drawers. There’s a box of opened condoms in the first one, and he blinks at it before slamming it shut, opening the next, pulling out jeans and anything that looks even sort of warm.

“I can’t go to New York.” Ebs blots at his face with the sheets. “Man, I have work.”

“Took care of it,” Taylor tells him, whipping a handful of shirts at the bed.

“What do you mean you took care of it?”

“I mean,” Taylor says, turning back to face him. “We’re going to New York. We’re driving. We’re gonna see Barzy and Tito for Christmas. I took care of everything, Barry knows you’re off, so let’s go.”

Ebs stares up at him, and for what might be the longest second of Taylor’s life he thinks Ebs might say no. He’d been so caught up in the rush of it all, the idea of it, that he never stopped to consider that Ebs might not want to even fucking go.

Ebs finally looks away, grabbing the backpack. “Fuck, can we get coffee first?”

—5 years ago— 

After it’s all gone—all of it, for good—he carefully copies down all his important numbers in case the Cloud fucks him over, starting with his mom, the long list of people back home, and then, finally, Ebs’ cell. He deletes everything else. Turns out he didn’t have to bother—the girl at T-mobile gets all his shit transferred to his new SIM card without a problem, and the folded slip of legal paper in his pocket suddenly weighs a ton. Back in his car he starts to crumple it, but thinks better and slips it into his glove compartment. Just in case.

He answers a super sketchy ad on Craigslist and gets a job cleaning yachts in the marina. He has to do shit like go underwater in snorkeling gear and chip barnacles off of the sides of boats that are worth more than his entire UCLA tuition would’ve cost if he hadn’t dropped out. It shreds his hands and he has a pinch in his lower back that never seems to go away, but he makes decent money and good tips. Enough that he’s never hungry and he can stay in a hostel every once in a while.

He calls his mom and tells her. Not everything, but about school, about not being in a good place for a while, about how sorry he is and if she never forgives him it’s okay. She cries a lot, makes him promise to call more, tells him she loves him, that she’s going to fly down to see him sometime soon. The irony of that isn’t lost on him.

He answers an ad for a roommate and ends up in a two bedroom with six guys in San Gabriel where the windless valley always feels like a stagnant 100 degrees, but fuck he has missed having a kitchen. A place to make instant ramen and stash his leftovers, a place to lie down that isn’t his back seat, a place where the police don’t come tapping on his window at 4am to tell him he can’t be parked there.

One of the guys, Miles, a rich kid from the Northeast trying to freak his parents out with a bohemian transient lifestyle, asks him one morning, “Yo, I’m moving to this place in Litore—my dad’s co-signing the lease and everything, but like, I still gotta make rent.”

Taylor tries not to outwardly roll his eyes, sipping at his coffee. “Mmhmm.”

“So like,” Miles goes on, grinning wide. He’s disarmingly good looking, like if James Franco had a soul and bathed semi-regularly, all even-tanned and dimpled. “You wanna check the place out with me? See if you like it?”

Taylor blinks rapidly, looking up. “What?”

“Dude,” Miles sighs, “I’m asking if you wanna move in with me—me and Palms, he already said he was down. Like, my parents are paying for half since I’m gonna start school next fall, but I need to make the other half myself and—”

“Yes,” Taylor cuts him off. “Yeah, yes, I’m down. I’m so down.”

He moves in with Miles and Kyle into an apartment so white and new Taylor’s afraid to touch anything. He starts running again, early morning when it’s barely light out, starts actually using his gym membership instead of just stashing his stuff there. The clothes that were hanging off of him at one point stretch over his shoulders, fit snug at his waist. 

There’s some huge yacht party one weekend out in Malibu, and Taylor’s boss asks him to work it last minute as a deckhand. Really, he can’t say no.

He’s wiping down the windows when he peeks into the galley, a half-lidded gaze meeting his through the layers of crusted over saltwater. Taylor, like an idiot, waves on reflex, and watches as Ebs darts away, out of sight.

Taylor shuts his eyes and smacks his head against the window once, twice, three times because stupid, stupid, fucking of course he doesn’t want to see you—

“Dude, I don’t think you can afford to lose anymore brain cells.”

Taylor jerks around, Ebs standing on deck in alarmingly bright, crisp whites, hair trimmed shorter than Taylor remembers, beard shaved. And all that his stupid, fat mouth manages to say is, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ebs says back, and grins, big and wide.

—

“Yo,” Ebs says, “The desert is so creepy.”

He has a point. Looking out through the windshield, there’s nothing around for miles except for weedy shrubs and dirt, the mountains running the length of the highway made hazy by the distance. It’s been like this for hours, nothing but nothing.

“People die out here all the time, just camping or whatever,” Ebs says. “Not just ‘cause of the heat, it’s like...there’s nothing, and you can’t tell how close anything is because there are no other landmarks to judge it by. Those mountains don’t look that far away, but they’re probably like thirty, forty miles off.”

“Yo,” Taylor scoffs, “be more morbid, I dare you.”

After nearly seven hours of driving, they’ve exhausted most of the music, and he’s not listening to any more of Ebs’ weird podcasts. Ebs is quiet for a beat. “Bet it’s so easy to like, toss bodies out here.”

“See this,” Taylor says, pointing a finger, “this is why everyone thinks you’re a serial killer.”

Ebs makes a face. “I’m just saying, how easy would it be for like, a trucker or someone driving everywhere to pick someone up, kill them, and then just toss them out on some abandoned stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere. Think about it.”

Taylor used to sell to truckers. Amphetamines, mostly. He thinks about every time one of them made a pass at him, slid their hand up his thigh, asked him to come back to their motel rooms to get fucked up. Even at his worst, Taylor couldn’t see the appeal with hanging out with crusty middle-aged dudes in what were essentially highway trap houses. He was just as addicted to the glitter of LA as he was to everything else. He’s not sure how Ebs, the exact opposite of glitz and glamour, managed to hold his attention back then. Maybe it had felt so good, after spending so many hours staring at the sun, to just shut his eyes and lean into something softer.

“Dude,” Taylor says, “That’s fucking it—no more true crime podcasts for the rest of the trip.”

—

The motel rooms are...about what he expects.

He books a room with one queen, fully prepared to explain that it was cheaper than the double twin rooms, but Ebs never asks. He just drops his bag by the door and face plants into scratchy looking acrylic duvet that has definitely seen better days, probably sometime in the early 80s. Taylor bets if he could vacuum the movie theater brand carpet that, between all the dirt and dust and pubes, there’s probably an eightball of coke embedded into the swirls of patternless colors.

“It’s fucking freezing,” Taylor hisses, nearly tripping over himself to get to the thermostat.

“Wow,” Ebs’ voice floats up from the bed, “the motherland would be so ashamed of you.”

“Fuck off,” Taylor grumbles, pulling a hoodie out of his backpack. “Just because you’re fucking like, an inhuman ice demon.”

“I’m fucking an inhuman ice demon?” Ebs picks his head up off the bed. “Huh, news to me.”

Stupidly, the box of opened condoms flashes through the front of Taylor’s mind. He shakes it away, zipping up his hoodie and waddling over to the bed, stiff from driving for nearly ten hours, and falls on top of Ebs’ back. 

“Fucking ow,” Ebs says, pointed. “Dude, what is with you and abusing my spleen?”

Taylor wiggles. “Tell me what your spleen actually does and I’ll get off of you.”

“I could fucking make something up and you wouldn’t even know.”

“Would too,” Taylor lies. Ebs grunts, squirming under him, but after a minute of resisting he melts into the bed. Taylor should probably get up, go brush his teeth or something, but Ebs is warm. He’s so warm.

He half rolls off to the side, grabbing at the edge of the comforter and pulling around over the two of them.

—

Taylor wakes up to the sound of running water and a beam of sunlight sneaking in through the parted curtains. He plants his face in a pillow and groans, thinking about the eight hour drive ahead of them. Christ. He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the missed messages (one from Nuge reads, _u ducking idiot u went on a CROSS COUNTY ROADTRIP w him AND i had to find out from BROCK NELSON of all ppl_), when Ebs comes out from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, shiny and flushed.

“You better not’ve used all the hot water,” Taylor huffs, cocooning himself before rolling towards the edge and swinging his feet around.

“Well,” Ebs says, too bright for 8am. “We appear to be in a quantum superposition.”

“Oh my god,” Taylor groans, drawing the covers tighter around himself. “Shut the fuck up about Sharknado’s cat.”

“I’m just saying,” Ebs goes on, like he didn’t learn everything he knows about quantum physics from a ten minute TEDtalk. “In this reality there’s a fifty-fifty chance the hot water is gone, but in a parallel reality—”

Taylor swings his feet over the edge of the bed. “I’m gonna choke slam you into another reality if you don’t get me coffee.”

Ebs blows out a big breath, shaking a crumpled shirt out of his backpack. “Maybe there’s an alternate reality where you’re actually nice to me.”

Taylor glares. “Un-fucking-likely.”

Ebs watches him waddle across the floor. “You can’t take the blankets into the bathroom, Halls.”

“Trust me,” Taylor says, “This is not the least sanitary thing that’s happened in this room.”

—

There’s a diner down the road, some off-brand Waffle House with magenta and teal everywhere. They stuff themselves into a faded vinyl booth near the front, windows looking out over the crumbling parking lot, and proceed to order half the menu.

“Shit’s so much cheaper here,” Ebs marvels, reaching for his giant glass of milk. “Like, a fruit cup in LA would be minimum ten bucks. It’s _two dollars_ here.”

“Yeah, but you can’t buy booze after like 6pm.”

Ebs’ eyes never leave the menu. “You don’t even drink anymore.”

It’s the first time Ebs has ever mentioned it. He guesses it would’ve been impossible for him not to notice that his best friend suddenly only guzzles diet Coke at the bar anymore, but somehow Taylor still thought maybe Ebs just never realized. He shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s like, the principle of the matter.”

“Speaking of like, buying stuff.” Ebs’ eyes meet his over the top of the laminated menu. “How much for gas and the motel?”

Taylor sips at his coffee, watery and black. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hallsy.” Ebs tilts his head. “Seriously.”

“My idea, my money,” Taylor says with a shrug.

“That’s not how it works, especially since you’re driving, dude, c’mon.”

Taylor reaches for the sugar shaker and says, “We’ll figure it out when we get to New York, okay?”

By ‘figure it out’ he means he hopes Ebs will just forget, which is unlikely, but at least this gives Taylor time. And, at the mention of New York, Ebs gets this small, private smile on his face, looking back down at his menu. It flickers, though, and he asks, “What the hell are funeral potatoes?”

“Dunno,” Taylor says, flipping over his own menu. “Sounds like it was made for you, though, you fuckin’ morbid weirdo.”

—

As they cross over the state line into Illinois, it starts to snow.

“I haven’t seen real falling snow in like,” Ebs marvels, breath fogging the window glass as he peers up at the sky from the passenger’s seat, “four years.”

There are some people who love Southern California for the heat. Dry, bone-deep heat that never lets in the rain, never lets in anything even close to snow, coming up off the asphalt in waves that distort the distance. There are some people who want to live in the sun, go to the beach all year round, forget that time even passes.

Ebs isn’t one of those people. Ebs’ life has been colored by the flush of changing leaves, the mirror of rain puddles rippling through a world in reverse, and the heavy blankets of pure white snow that make nighttime look like day.

Taylor thought he was one of those people, when he left for school. He thought about beach days in November and outdoor parties in February and summer festivals so scorching everyone would have no choice but to take off all their clothes. When he pulls into the Best Western parking lot and gets out of the car, he realizes how wrong he was, white flakes floating down all around them, heart swollen and heavy in his chest with an ache so sweet it feels something close to coming home.

He looks over at Ebs, who’s spinning with his arms out, eyes shut, trying to catch them on his tongue. Instead they stick to his eyelashes, his beard, his clothes. A universe dotted by stars.

“What are you,” Taylor tries to sound biting, but it comes out raw, “Seven?”

Ebs doesn’t bite back, just tilts his face up towards the sky, the backdrop of a whited out stretch of desolate highway and miles and miles of flat nothingness make it seem like Ebs is the only living thing for lightyears. Taylor, even in his too-thin hoodie and jeans, feels warm all over.

He scoops up snow into his bare hands, just wet enough to pack tight and launch squarely at the side of Ebs’ head.

“You fucking—” Ebs’ laugh echoes, scrambling to chase after an already slipping and sliding Taylor. He’s maybe halfway to the lobby when a hand grips his hood and yanks, two bodies tumbling into a small drift of snow, screaming in an echo that reaches out over what feels like the entirety of everything.

—

They make shitty instant coffee to get the feeling back in their fingers, shedding their damp clothes in heaps across the floor and wrapping themselves in blankets and sheets with nothing but boxers on underneath. The curtains open, the room dark, they watch the snow come down.

“Why’d you move to LA,” Taylor hears himself ask, voice quiet, “if you love the snow so much?”

Ebs shifts next him him on the floor, reaching over for his mug perched on the chair, light brown coffee inside, because Ebs likes his coffee to taste like sugary milk. “Me and a bunch of buddies all moved at the same time. Thought it would be fun. I wasn’t really doing much ‘cept working at my dad’s garage, so it’d seemed fun at the time...then they all fucking went back home.” 

Taylor stares at him. “But you stayed.”

“Yeah, well.” Ebs downs the rest of his coffee like a shot, wincing at the sludgy, bitter taste. “I don’t know. I mean my family’s there, but Regina’s not home anymore, not really.”

“But Litore is.”

His coffee is gone, he’s got nothing left to fiddle with. “I...it’s fine. Like I love hanging out with everyone. And it’s like, easier. Like, I love my family, but when I was a kid...you know how it is. Feels like everyone’s watching, like you’re gonna slip up at any second. I never even like, flirted with a guy until I got down there.” 

Ebs pauses, and Taylor’s pulse is hammering in his ears, heart going so fast it feels like it might fly right out of his chest and expose everything in one awful, screaming moment. They’ve never really talked about it, but Taylor’s always known, in the way anyone who’s spent their life hiding in plain sight can see right through to anyone else doing the same, like fucking...gay echo location or something. This is the first time either of them has acknowledged it to each other, out loud. 

“Yeah, I…” there are a million and one things Taylor wants to say. How it was the reason he wanted to go to university so far away, the reason he quit hockey, the reason he lost touch with most of his friends back home, the reason he doesn’t like to be in family photos. None of it wants to come out, though, so he just looks out at the snow blanketing the parking lot, filling their footsteps and tire tracks, like they were never even there. 

“Fuck,” Ebs swears suddenly. “I left the Lactaid in the fucking glove compartment.”

Taylor snorts and lays back on the carpet, stretching, the hem of his shirt riding up. “Have fun out there.”

“I’ll let you charge your phone first if you get it for me.”

“Not a chance.”

Ebs grunts, getting up on his feet and going off to find his still damp jeans from before, grabbing Taylor’s hoodie rather than his own sweater and stuffing his feet back into his sneakers without socks. Taylor hears the door open and shut, the hiss and click of the heater doing it’s best to flood the room with the driest blast of cloyingly static air. He feels like he’s been wrung out and hung to dry, hours and hours of driving through the cold, and they’re still fifteen hours from New York.

When he hears Ebs come back into the room, Taylor rolls over as the lights are switched on. “Hey, do we have any of those Cokes le—” 

He watches as Ebs silent places a white round pill on the nightstand. Taylor blinks, confused—he knows what it is on sight.

“It was in the glove compartment,” Ebs finally says, voice thin. When Taylor’s eyes finally leave the pill and meet Ebs’, they’re voids tunneling through the small room, sucking in everything in their path. 

It clicks, then, what’s happening. What Ebs thinks is happening. “Ebs,” his voice might be trembling, he can’t be sure, because it all comes out in a rush, “Ebs, man, I swear to god, that’s old. I haven’t—I don’t—“

“I know you haven’t been high,” Ebs says, pressing his fingertip against the pill. “I can tell when you’re high—just—why the fuck do you have it?”

Taylor takes a deep breath in, trying to quiet everything whirring inside of him. He swallows. “When I stopped the first time, it wasn’t cold turkey. I hid shit in weird places so it wasn’t all just…easy to get to, or something. I don’t know, it made sense at the time, but I was also fucking high all the time, so.” He pushes his fingers through his hair, and chances a glance up at Ebs. It’s still that hollow void of a face. “I don’t know how I missed one in the glove compartment, but that’s at least five years old, Ebs, I swear.” 

Ebs’ eyes slip shut, voice quiet, “You swear?” 

Taylor pushes up onto his feet, across the small room and takes it off the side table, turns into the bathroom, and flushes it. When he looks back, Ebs is in the doorway, sagging against it as every ounce of tension is cut, only a white wooden frame there to hold him up.

—

They climb into Taylor’s car the next morning stuffed with minimuffins from the free continental breakfast. The snow’s beginning to melt under a cloud wrung blue sky, every step mushy, seeping through Taylor’s sneakers. Inside, the glove compartment is still popped open from last night, and even though Taylor knows there’s nothing else in there that Ebs could find, his heart speeds up—

“What’s this?”

Ebs’ fingers pull out a slip of yellow legal paper from between the registration and car manual, and Taylor frowns down at it, trying to place what it could be as he watches Ebs unfold it. When he sees the neatly copied columns of numbers he almost lunges for it.

“Phone numbers?” Ebs asks, eyes scanning the lines. “Why’s mine on here?”

Taylor rubs at the back of his neck, at the prickle of heat there. “When I changed my number I wasn’t sure if they could get my contacts on the new SIM card, so I...wrote ‘em down, just in case.”

Ebs bites at the inside of his cheek. “Hm.”

Taylor snatches the paper. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your dumb face says it all.”

Ebs starts rummaging through the rest of the compartment. “What else is in here? Embarrassing baby pictures? Diary entries from middle school? Poems?” 

Taylor jams the keys into the ignition. “Put your fucking seat belt on, Ebs.”

—2 years ago—

He stops drinking the summer Barzy shows up, slowly trading jack and Cokes for just plain diet Coke. It takes about fifteen minutes after he meets the kid to recognize what a colossal mistake this is, because fuck, nothing makes him crave the bottom of the bottle more than watching two teenagers awkwardly flirt over shitty inside jokes and god awful reality television. At the end of the night, when Tito orders them all an Uber to head back to Marty’s, Taylor’s eye is twitching, and once the door to Barzy’s little AirBnB casita is shut, he can’t help himself. “Don’t you want to kiss your boyfriend goodnight?”

“Dude, shut the fuck up!”

Tito doesn’t like him. He assumes because someone’s told him everything, whether it was Marty of Cal or Casey or whoever, whether it was all truth or all bold faced lies or some mix of the two. It doesn’t really matter, and Taylor doesn’t really care. Something about Tito’s round, cartoon face makes Taylor feel like he’s back on a playground blacktop, where only swingset rules apply, and he just wants to mash it into the dirt.

Ebs likes hanging around them though, says it makes him feel young again. When Taylor reminds Ebs that he’s only twenty-four, Ebs sighs and gets this far off look in his eyes like Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind” should be playing somewhere off in the distance.

They’re on Marty’s front porch that night, Ebs dozing on the swing with a loosely clasped beer in his hand. Taylor kind of figured once he stopped drinking, being around drunk people would suck. And sometimes it does, but Ebs just gets pinker and softer and weirder, and probably worse for Taylor’s insides than alcohol ever was. 

“Sucks he’s leaving,” Ebs murmurs. He means Barzy, who’s supposed to go home tomorrow, back to Vancouver after his week long vacation in Litore. The whole story—Tito and Barzy having known each other from some high school cultural exchange when they were kids, meeting again by chance in Litore—honestly bores Taylor to tears, and he doesn’t care whether Barzy stays or goes. Ebs does, though.

Taylor watches Ebs as he squints down the opening of his bottle to check if anything left inside, and says, “He’s not.”

Ebs’ eyebrows crease. “What?”

“He’s not leaving,” Taylor tells him, mind rolling over the images of Barzy staring up at Tito from his spot on the floor, eyes big and shiny. His fingers twitch, wishing he had a bottle of his own to hold onto, or at least a can of soda or something. “Hundred bucks says he stays.”

Ebs blinks slowly. “I think I’d be stupid to take that bet.” 

He stands, swaying a little as he turns towards the door, calling over his shoulder, “We got apple juice if you want.”

Taylor hops off the railing and follows him inside.

—

By the time they get to the apartment, it’s nearly midnight, and Taylor is exhausted, visibly drooping in the hallway as Tito pulls the door open and jumps on top of Ebs.

“God, keep it in your pants,” Taylor grunts, sagging against the wall. “You saw each other like, four months ago.”

“Hi Hallsy,” Barzy says from inside the apartment, unshaven and holding a bowl of what looks like brownie batter. “How was the drive?”

“We drove cross country in five days,” Taylor snaps. “How the fuck do you think it was?”

“He’s just pissed ‘cause we got lost before the bridge,” Ebs mumbles from where his face is shoved into Tito’s shoulder. “Also it’s his like, default personality.”

“Here,” Barzy says, handing Taylor a spoon covered in uncooked batter. 

Taylor shoves it in his mouth, then talks around it, “If I get salmonella, you’re paying for my ER bills.”

Barzy rolls his eyes. “Good to see you too, man.”

—

The apartment is small, tucked into a weird quasi-industrial neighborhood in Queens, with a tiny kitchen, all Formica counter tops and yellowed tiles, living room taken up by the coffee table they have to move to pull out the sofa bed. Barzy's strung up a bunch of white Christmas lights and plastic garland, around the window, dipping from one end of the room to the other, held in place by duct tape. “Cause we couldn’t really fit a tree,” he explains with a shrug,

Taylor thinks it’s gonna be a whole week of feeling left out like he normally does, but between takeout and the worst reality TV Taylor has seen in his life, they melt together.

“But Vicki was the one who brought it up in the first place!” Taylor flaps a hand at the TV.

Tito snorts. “It’s cute that you think things like logic and common decency apply to Vicki Gunvalson.”

“I fucking hate this shit,” Taylor says, snatching the remote. “Put on the next episode.”

Ebs tips over from laughing, mashing his face into Taylor’s shoulder.

Barzy runs out one morning and gets fresh bagels that might be the greatest things Taylor's ever tasted, still steaming hot when Taylor bites into one. He always kind of figured New Yorkers were full of shit when they went on and on about their pizza and bagels, but Taylor might have to give 'em this one. He spends the first three days in a carb coma, drifting off in sweet marinara bliss, dreams woven together with perfectly greasy lo mein noodles, peppered with halal truck falafel. They take the subway into Midtown (which Taylor decides is nothing more than a glorified cesspool), and they last about one picture at Rockefeller Center and two dirty water dogs before hiking back.

So as a whole it's going way better than Taylor thought it would, except then Tito and Barzy get into this weirdass fight over the ketchup packets in the fridge, going at each other in the kitchen in a way Taylor’s never seen them do.

“We fucking have ketchup,” Barzy snaps, shaking a fistful of McDonalds brand packets. “We have like three bottles. These things are fucking everywhere.”

Tito's red in the face, eyes pinched at the edges. “They’re perfectly fucking good—I take them for lunch all the time.”

“Dude, no you don’t.”

“Yes, I fucking do!”

Taylor realizes it’s probably not about the ketchup packets, and probably about other shit. But the fact that the perfect shining golden couple who defied the odds through college and long distance and everything else, is crumbling in the face of condiments, well, Taylor’s thrilled beyond belief. 

Ebs, though, looks deeply uncomfortable. “Barz, hey, why don’t we go get stuff for dinner or something?”

Taylor turns and makes a face at him, a clear, _don’t fucking leave me here, asshole!_

Barzy sags, dropping the ketchup packets on the counter. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

They draw up a quick list on an index card which they promptly forget, because Ebs (freak that he is) can’t wait to practically skip out into the frozen tundra. It might actually be like, sleeting outside, because New York isn’t just cold in the winter, but wet and slushy in a way that eats through every layer of clothing and lets wind whip right through to your bare skin. Taylor’s inside, wearing two sweaters and thermals under his sweats and he still feels chilled.

Tito starts stress-eating Funyuns once the front door shuts, the grossest of the snack foods, watching Taylor light a cigarette with a steady, unblinking stare. He and Tito have been pretty well-behaved over the past four days, snapping and eye rolling, heatless and distracted by the endless slew of Holiday movies Barzy insists they absolutely have to watch.

Now though, alone, it’s like they’re a couple of caged animals just circling each other.

“Fat fucking chance I’d go out there.” Taylor inhales, peering out the narrow window down onto the street below.

“You know they want us to go to Dyker Heights to look at the lights tomorrow night, right?” Tito asks through a mouthful of mush that Taylor can smell from across the room.

Taylor makes a face. “Where?”

“It’s this neighborhood in Brooklyn that does crazy Christmas decoration or whatever. You walk around and look at them.”

“Why do we need to see lights,” Taylor stresses. “We see them every day.”

Tito holds up a hand in mock surrender. “Hey, it wasn’t my idea. I just wanted to go get Korean barbecue.”

“Sounds like somewhere you can’t order mozzarella sticks,” Taylor says. “Ebs won’t like it.”

Tito regards him for a second, eyes scanning coolly. “So like, what’s the fucking deal?”

“Dude, I don’t know,” Taylor sighs. “He’s so fucking lactose intolerant but he loves dairy, like—”

“That’s not what I—” Tito’s eyebrow crease. “What the hell do you mean he’s lactose intolerant?”

“I mean that he’s intolerant of lactose,” Taylor says, snapping his fingers. “C’mon man, keep up.”

_“He fucking inhales milk.”_

Taylor shrugs. “You know Ebs—he bends to no man’s will, least of all his own.”

He can practically see Tito’s brain short circuiting, but he shakes his head and powers through, “No, man, I mean with you and Ebs.”

“Well, like, I always try to have Lactaid around—”

“No,” Tito stops him. “I mean with _you and Ebs.”_

He’s got that built in middle school reflex to make a face and just deny everything, deflect everything, maybe throw in a couple of digs at Tito’s dumb facial hair for good measure.

Instead, he snubs his cigarette out in the seashell Barzy let him use as a makeshift ashtray, exhaling one last breath of smoke out the window.

“The same as always,” he answers, keeping it cryptic, because plausible deniability has always been his numero uno. He shuts the window, locks it.

Tito’s eyes narrow. “How long you gonna keep dicking him around for?”

“Hey,” heat colors Taylor’s voice. “I’m not doing shit to him.”

“Hooking up with him for years and fucking him around when he’s clearly so into you—”

The wind outside pushed against the glass, howling to be let in. Taylor’s voice goes low, even. “The fuck are you talking about.”

“Dude, c’mon,” Tito says. “I know you think I’m an idiot, but I’m not blind. You stay in his room all the time. I’ve walked in on you, like, _fuck._ You drove him across the country and you’re sleeping on my pullout together every night.”

Tito has, on occasion, burst into Ebs’ room without warning, looking for sunblock or a phone charger, taking a mile a minute as Ebs lazily directed him from his spot half smothering Taylor. He tries to think of how that must’ve looked from an outsider’s perspective, especially after long days out at the beach, showering themselves raw and crawling under cool sheets, wrung out from salt and surf and sun, folded into one another.

Taylor’s throat is tight as tries to joke, “Wow, since when can a guy not cuddle his bro without it being gay. Way to be all toxically masculine, man—wanna throw in a no homo on top of that?”

Tito’s glare fizzles flat.

Taylor rubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you think is going on, and the fact that you think I need to justify any part of our shit to you, of all people—”

“He’s one of my best friends,” Tito stresses. “He’s one of the best guys I know. He deserves someone who wants a relationship, because that’s what he wants—not just hooking up, or-or whatever.”

Taylor doesn’t need to hear the rest of this. “You don’t know shit. If Ebs wants a relationship, he can have one with whoever he wants. But it’s not me, because he’s never even—we’ve never even—”

The one kiss doesn’t count, and even if it did, he isn’t going to tell Tito.

Tito’s mouth parts, eyes round and shiny in the living room light, stark realization pulling his face into a dumbfounded stare. Taylor wants to feel victorious about it, but all he feels is raw and exposed in a home that isn’t his, a room he’s borrowed for a bed, the world beyond the window a sleet of white blurring unfamiliar city lights.

“Oh…” Tito says, barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah,” Taylor snaps, “oh.”

“I just,” Tito’s eyes flicker to the floor, back up, then away again. “I always thought…”

“Well surprise, surprise.” Taylor snatches the bag from Tito’s hands, just as an excuse to steal something, anything from him. “You were fucking wrong.”

He shoves them into a random cabinet, barely avoiding the avalanche of Tupperware threatening to spill out before he slams the door shut again. He knows Tito is right behind him, staring at him, but Taylor can’t turn and face him.

“Hallsy,” Tito says, and Taylor’s body seizes, ready to whip around and...fucking tackle him, or something, because he’s not having this conversation. Not with Tito.

The door bursts open, Ebs falling across the threshold, cold air rolling off of him as he says, “Forgot the fucking list.”

Taylor tries not to stare at how wind bitten his looks, pink high in his cheeks, his ears, the tip of his nose. “Why didn’t you just text us for a picture of it instead of coming all the way back?”

“I did,” Ebs stresses. “You didn’t answer.”

Taylor frowns and checks his phone. The only new message he has is from Nuge, trying to take a picture of the weird rash on his foot and wondering if he needs to see a doctor. “No, you didn’t.”

Ebs’ face goes tight. “Yeah, I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t call my bluff.”

The cabinet doors busts open, Funyuns and about twenty pieces of plastic spilling out over the counter and floor. Tito buries his face in his hands.

“Oof,” Ebs says. “Have fun cleaning that up.”

He starts to make his way back towards the open door when Taylor has to call after him, “Ebs, the list.”

“Right.” Ebs spins, taking and awkwardly long step towards the breakfast bar to snatch up the index card of groceries, crumpling it in his gloved hand before waving it over his head. “Be back soon!”

The silence that settles once the door slams shut, heavy footsteps thunking down the hallway outside, is deafening. At least when he peeks at Tito out of the corner of his eye, Tito looks just as uncomfortable, kicking a small plastic container with his slipper. One big breath later he asks Taylor, “You wanna watch more Real Housewives?”

Taylor nods. They don’t talk about anything else for the rest of the hour except Ramona’s tacky new house in the Hamptons.

—

Ebs is scrolling through his phone on the pull out that night with his headphones in. His warmth is seeping through the sheets and all Taylor wants to do is curl into it. Instead, he faces away, slits between the blinds barely containing the light from the streetlamp right outside, an ugly, desaturated orange.

“Do you remember,” he asks, “the first night we met?”

“Hm?” he feels Ebs shift, probably pulling out his headphones. “You say something?”

Taylor jams his eyes shut. “Nothing. Never mind.”

There’s a pause, the tinny sound of Ebs’ music pouring out of the earbuds, a song Taylor kind of recognizes, but can’t name.

“Is my volume too loud?” Ebs asks.

“No. It’s nothing.” A pause, then there’s a thump from the adjacent wall, a soft, smothered moan. Taylor pulls a pillow over his face. “Fucking _ew.”_

Ebs says, “I guess they made up.”

“Stop,” Taylor groans, pulling the pillow off and whacking Ebs with it. “I’d rather hear them fight about fucking ketchup all night.”

Ebs hits him back, and when Taylor looks up at him, says, “You know, you really did them a solid by driving us both out here. I think they really needed it.”

“Yo,” Taylor hits him with the pillow again. “Shut up. I didn’t do shit for them.”

“But you actually really did. Like, Barzy’s got people from school and stuff, but, y’know. Living with someone, in a place where they don’t really have anyone else...it’s hard. It was really nice of you to make all this happen.”

Taylor’s gut twists. He didn’t do it for them. He did it for Ebs, and he wants Ebs to know it was all only for him. But instead he just goes, “You can fuck right off with that bullshit.”

“You did a nice thing for other people.” Ebs pokes hard at his side. “You’re a good person, Taylor Hall.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Nah,” Ebs says, sliding down into bed and elbowing Taylor. “Deny it all you want, bro, but you can’t fool me.”

Taylor doesn’t say anything to that. Can’t. It’s too close to pushing him straight over the edge and doing something stupid like pinning Ebs down to this fucking creaky pullout bed and ruining everything. He turns onto his front, shoving his face into the balled up flat sheet that wound up getting pushed up and away, and grunts into it.

There’s a long breath behind him, then Taylor feels a hand nudging his back, unrelenting until he looks over his shoulder and sees Ebs offering him an earbud. His eyes flicker between Ebs’ shadow muted face, and the extended hand cut by slices of light from the blinds. Taylor takes it without really thinking, and when Ebs turns back to his phone, putting his own earbud in, Taylor rolls onto his back and does the same.

“Dude,” Taylor says, smiling into the dark, “really?” 

“Shut up, I like this song.”

Taylor can’t say when he falls asleep after that, but it happens pretty fast, the distant sounds of a city beyond the window in one ear, and Nickelback in the other. They end up not going to Dyker Heights the next night, but to the holiday light show down a stretch of highway down by Jones Beach. It's still just lights, but at least Taylor gets to stay in the nice and toasty car and steal sips from Ebs' latte instead of freezing his balls off walking through Brooklyn. And honestly, on the drive back through the dark marshlands, the prettiest lights are the ones in the distance across the water, suspended like stars in space, going on forever.

—2 years ago— 

Taylor used to do this when Marty still really fucking hated him, slipping into the backyard and grabbing the ladder from the shed to prop it up against the garage roof. As it stands now, Marty just hates him, and he could probably just wait until someone else gets there to let him in, but Taylor doesn’t want to wait.

He struggles up onto the garage roof, because of course it actually fucking rained that morning for the first time in like, two years or something. He stops at Ebs’ window, peeking in to see one lone body face down on the bed, the muffled sound of awful early 2000s alternative rock seeping through the open sliver. Taylor slides his fingers under, pushes up, and climbs through.

It takes some good old fashioned wiggling, using the edge of the dresser as leverage and he pulls himself through the (tinier than he remembers) window before slumping down onto the floor face first. When he manages to get his feet through and roll onto his back, Ebs is looking down at him from the bed.

“That,” Taylor pants, “used to be way easier. Fuck, am I getting old? Is this what you feel like every day?”

Ebs tries on a half grin that doesn’t quite make it, and Taylor pulls himself up onto the mattress. They’re silent for a minute, before Taylor says, “Three Doors Down? Seriously?”

“Dude,” Ebs sighs. “I’m not in the mood.”

Taylor looks up at the ceiling, back teeth grinding. “I’ll fucking drive up to Vancouver and throat punch him. Swear to god.”

“He’s not—” Ebs cuts himself off. “He’s just confused. He’s fucking eighteen. You can’t tell me you didn’t do stupid shit when you were eighteen. You can’t tell me you don’t do stupid shit now at fucking twenty-three.”

“Well, yeah,” Taylor says. “But I’m way better looking, so I can get away with that shit.”

That actually gets Ebs to laugh.

Taylor watches the grin slip away, watches Ebs shrink away. He sighs. “Seriously, what did he say? I know you tried to call him, and I know he’s dumb enough to say something fucked.”

“It’s fine,” Ebs’ words come out jagged, “Really, it’s—”

Taylor’s ringing phone cuts through the air, and he has to roll onto his side to fish it from his back pocket, squinting at the screen. “It’s Barz.”

Ebs sits up and grabs Taylor’s wrist, jerking his hand over, peering close at the screen. “Holy shit. Why is he calling you?”

Taylor makes the universal “I don’t know” sound, shrugging as they both watch the phone ringing between them. It stops, and they glance at each other, eyebrows raised.

“Butt dial?” Ebs guesses when the phone buzzes in Taylor’s hand and he fumbles it, barely managing to catch it before it hit the floor.

“He left a voicemail,” Taylor says, tapping the screen. 

Barzy’s voice slurs through the phone, “Beau—Beau, fuckin’—’m so fuggin sorry, like, no idea how sorry, shit like….god, miss you, and ‘m sorry, an’ I miss you. An’ I wish you were here. An’ I wish I didn’ fuck everything up so fuckin’ bad an I wish I could suck your—”

“Okay!” a second voice cuts in, and there’s a static rumble before the call ends completely.

Taylor looks at Ebs, who looks back at him, then back at the phone. “Holy shit.”

Taylor...feels bad. He doesn’t normally feel bad for anyone but himself, but even half-unintelligible, there’s a chord of hurt echoing in every word he just heard. Taylor knows that hurt forwards, backwards, slantways and sideways. He’s lived in it, the pain of someone who knows they’ve fucked up, that they’re fucked up. 

Obviously he has to play it again.

“Yo, stop,” Ebs hisses, hitting the screen. “That’s like, private.”

Taylor jerks the phone away. “He called _me._ As far as I’m concerned I can listen to it as many times as I want.”

“It clearly wasn’t meant for you, jackass.”

“You now what, Ebs?” Taylor says. “You’re right.”

Ebs peers up at him, skeptical. “I am?”

“Yeah. You are. It’s not mine to listen to.” Taylor’s eyes slip shut, nodding before looking over at the door. “Which is why Tito needs to hear it right the fuck now.”

He tries to bolt off the bed, but Ebs gets him around the waist forcing them both to the floor with a boom that shakes the whole house.

“Jesus Christ, Jordan, are you—” Marty bursts through the door, stopping himself once he sees the two of them sprawled out on the crumb encrusted area rug. He squints at Taylor. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“Uh,” Taylor says, head lifting.

“You know what?” Marty holds a hand up, eyes shut. “I don’t...want to know.”

With that he shuts the door. Taylor never plays the voicemail for Tito, but it doesn’t matter, because a few days later Tito and Ebs are on a flight up to Vancouver. Taylor’s mostly stupidly jealous, eating through three bags of sunflower seeds and chainsmoking at Nuge's apartment, but also...relieved. Just a bit. At least someone’s going to get the chance to undo some of their hurt.

—

Christmas day they sleep until noon and never leave the apartment, catching bad movies that are already half over, Facetiming with various family members. Taylor’s family is all in the den with the big done up Christmas tree, meticulous and bright with all matching ornaments, white lights, a few well placed handmade ones that don’t distract from the overall ambiance. Everyone is in tasteful whites and reds, his mom shows him the turkey in the oven and the new Vitamix on the counter. Taylor feels like he’s staring at the pages of a glossy magazine, can’t picture himself in his stained sweats and unwashed hoodie fitting in there, the lump in his throat getting harder and harder to swallow down as he sees all his nieces and his cousins running around.

There’s only one present given. A bottle of ketchup, from Barzy to Tito. Taylor thinks Tito actually tears up, but can’t actually see once he pounces on Barzy. Fucking freaks.

Ebs gets very tipsy from eggnog (and of fucking course Ebs loves eggnog, the grossest shit known to humankind), keeps messing around on Barzy’s acoustic, singing Christmas songs he only half remembers the words to. Taylor’s only been sipping on spiced cider all night, but he feels drunk by osmosis, giggling on the floor and leaning against the couch for support.

“I just want you for my own,” Ebs belts out, striking an out of tune chord. Tito’s filming him on his phone, half fallen over on the carpet, cackling. “More than you can ever kno-OW!”

“Bro, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Taylor says, “but you do not have Mariah’s range.”

“Lies!” Ebs shouts, face pink. “Slander!”

The cramped living room is covered by the smorgasboard of leftovers from the last five days, fresh KD, fourteen dollar wine in red Solo cups. It’s not a California Christmas with twinkle light wrapped palm trees, stoned boardwalk Santas, and white reggae bands playing Bing Crosby songs at all the bars. And it’s not Christmas back home with six feet of snow that won’t thaw until May, all of his shiny family members unwrapping shiny, expensive gifts, asking a million and one questions about his job, his goals, his love life. It’s something new, and Taylor thinks he might like it, Ebs above him on the sofa singing through a mouthful of three day old Pad Thai.

“When did you learn to play, Ebs?” Barzy asks, drunk enough that he’s hanging all over Tito, cheek against his shoulder. “I’ve been trying to learn, but I like, really, really suck.”

Tito winces, bringing his wine up to his mouth. “He really does.”

Ebs fiddles with the tuning pegs. “One of my friends who was moving back home didn’t want to take his guitar with him, so I bought it off him for a Big Mac. And like, dunno, for a while it was just me, before I met Marty and everyone, so all I did on my days off was practice.”

Taylor pictures it, Ebs alone in some shithole in WeHo, learning to play stilted covers of his favorite songs for no one but the cracked walls. 

“Play something else,” Taylor tells him. Ebs grins at him, slow and wide, and hits a chord.

—

The goodbye is supposed to be painless. Taylor wants to just go heat up the car and wait for Ebs to come down, but somehow he can’t make it past the doorway without Barzy and Tito deciding they’re walking down, too.

"Here," Barzy says, handing him a big brown bag that Taylor knows from the weight and warmth is full of bagels. "For the ride back."

_Bagel destiny,_ Taylor thinks nonsensically and clutches the bag to his chest. God, he could kiss the kid.

“I’ll call you when we get to the motel,” Ebs tells Tito, already roping him into what’s sure to be a ten minute long goodbye.

Tito buries his face in Ebs’ shoulder, letting out a muffled. “Okay, dad.”

Barzy tilts his head, wind whipping his hair around. Even tangled and flying everywhere, it looks artfully flouncy. “If Ebs is our dad,” Barzy asks, “does that make Hallsy our mom?”

Taylor could fucking strangle him.

“Nah,” Tito says, lifting his head, nose scrunching in thought. “If anything he’s like, the weird step-mom who came in during out late teens, and no one in the family vibes with her, but we deal with it ‘cause she makes Papa happy.”

“Oh fuck,” Barzy whispers, reverent. “You’re right. You’re so fucking right. Why is that so right?”

Taylor scowls. “Can either of you like, shut the fuck up for two seconds? Ever?”

“Whatever, man.” Tito rolls his eyes. “You’re not even my real mom.”

Taylor looks over at Ebs. “Okay, great, can we go—”

“See?” Ebs sighs, shaking his head. “This is why the kids don’t connect with you. You never try to spend any quality time with them.”

Taylor lift his face towards the sky, eyes shut. “I fucking...can’t stand any of you.”

Ebs throws an arm around Taylor’s shoulders and yanks him forward into a fourway hug. Someone across the street wolf whistles, and all Taylor can do is huff and lean into it.

—2 years ago— 

Tito runs after Barzy, because of course he does. That’s the way their romantic comedy was born to play out, heartache uncomplicated and short lived, resolved by the end of the third act. What Taylor doesn’t see coming is that Ebs goes with him, leaving Taylor alone for four whole days, chain smoking on Nuge’s balcony and making shitty emo playlists on Spotify.

“Dude, seriously,” Nuge says, turning off the wireless speaker. “Enough with the sad sack music. If I hear that Papa Roach song one more fucking time I’m literally gonna barf.”

Taylor looks out over downtown LA, the congested freeways winding and twisting, the haze of smog muting the light. He’s exhausted but wired, eyes dry and foot jiggling, thoughts fragmenting, impossible to focus. “You think it turned out alright?”

“What, Tito and his boy?” Nuge asks, shrugging as he sits next to Taylor. “Yeah, probably. Text Ebs and ask him.”

Taylor sinks down in the plastic chair. “You think he’s upset or whatever?”

“Who?” Nuge asks. “Tito?”

“No,” Taylor huffs, smushing his cigarette into the ashtray. “Ebs.”

Nuge frowns. “Why the fuck would Ebs be upset? Did they take that weird British baking show that no one wins money on off of Netflix?”

“No, dude, like...” Taylor leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t know. Ebs has a thing for Tito, and now he’s flown three thousand miles to watch him go be with someone else.”

Nuge blinks slowly. “What...the shit are you talking about? When has that ever been a thing?”

Taylor gets Nuge is trying to spare his feelings, pretend he doesn’t know what Taylor’s saying, but it’s just making Taylor jiggle his foot faster. He slips another cigarette into his mouth. “Whatever man, just leave me alone.”

“Okay, first of all, fuck you,” Nuge tells him, snatching the cigarette and flicking it over the balcony railing. Taylor gapes after it. “Second of all, get up. I seriously can’t watch you pine anymore. C’mon, up.”

He stands and starts kicking at Taylor’s ankle, relentless until Taylor throws his hands up. “Jesus, ow, fine! Fine!”

Nuge, still not satisfied, shoves Taylor through the sliding door and across the apartment. The rest of the night, Taylor only checks his phone twice. Ebs doesn’t answer him, but it’s fine. He’ll be home soon enough.

—

They spend New Years Eve in a motel about an hour off from the Grand Canyon. Ebs has never been, so they get up at 5am, grab a hearty gas station breakfast of snack cakes and shitty coffee, and make the drive out to the South Rim to watch the sunrise.

Its a lot warmer than New York, but Taylor’s still freezing, shivering in his two hoodies and the dumb poof ball hat he pinched off of Tito before they left. It’s worth it, though, to see Ebs’ face blown open, shiny eyes looking out over everything, the sun slipping through the endless roll of pink touched clouds. It’s worth it to hear the soft, almost choked sound Ebs makes.

“Holy shit,” Ebs breathes out.

Taylor shrugs, heart about to burst through his chest. “It’s alright, I guess.”

“Yo,” Ebs snorts, giving Taylor’s arm a shove. “Shut up. It’s like, legit beautiful.”

Taylor stares at him, the hard slant of light cutting across Ebs’ face, catching in his hair, his eyelashes, his stubble. Beyond him the canyon, all carved edges and layers upon layers of sediment, of earth, is deep and cavernous, shadowed in depths of blues and purples that the light can’t reach just yet, the work of millions of years of one single, steady stream.

“Yeah,” Taylor says, swallowing. “Yeah, I guess it kind of is.”

Their elbows brush, just slightly. Ebs says, “Happy New Year, Hallsy.”

They sip their gas station coffee against the railing and watch the canyon light up.

—Whenever— 

There’s one night, and it’s like most nights, where Taylor is in Ebs’ bed, or Ebs is in his bed, late night edging into early morning. Taylor is probably cold, and Ebs is probably half-asleep with his face in the crook of Taylor’s neck, and Taylor knows he’s so fucked, but he’d rather be fucked and hopeless if it means he can have this, just this, for as long as Ebs will let him.

Ebs’ll say something like, “Man, we have no idea where human consciousness comes from.”

And Taylor will say, “Ebs, you can’t even spell consciousness.”

And Ebs will laugh, because Ebs always laughs, and Taylor will feel it hum through his body, warm and electric.

—

By the time they hit California, they’ve exhausted every song, every story, every argument, and all that’s left to do is roll the windows down and let the hot air blast through the car. Taylor never wants to see a motel room or a gas station or shitty diner for as long as he lives, and even when they stop it feels like his insides are still rolling forward from the inertia of having driven nearly 6,000 miles in just over two weeks.

He knows they’re close, though, when they hit deadlock, bumper to bumper traffic.

“Christ almighty,” Taylor groans, sinking down behind the wheel as they inch forward.

“Yeah, welcome the fuck home.” Ebs rubs at his face. “God, I can’t wait for my bed.”

They’ve spent an inhuman amount of time together, trapped in cars and tiny motel rooms and on Barzy and Tito’s pullout couch. Ebs might want a break. Might not want to see Taylor for whole, entire days. Taylor scratches at his beard, feeling itchy all over.

“Look.”

Ebs flashes him his phone, a picture of Barzy holding a tiny lab puppy, face scrunched as the dog licks at his nose.

Taylor grabs at the screen and bring it closer to his face. “Please fucking tell me they did not get a dog.”

“Relax.” Ebs takes the phone back. “It’s their friend Scott’s. Also, what do you care if they get a dog? Not like you’re gonna have to take care of it.”

“They can barely take care of themselves. Tito lost his license, passport, and Costco card all in the six day span we were there,” Taylor stresses. “Watch they don’t even make it to next Christmas.”

Usually Ebs will be there with him, talking shit and laughing, or he’ll tell Taylor to shut the fuck up, and that’s usually how Taylor can gauge where he lands on the funny to asshole spectrum. So when Taylor gets nothing but silence in return, he glances over at Ebs, then does a double take at the genuinely pissed expression that’s staring back at him. “Uh—”

“Why the fuck would you say something like that,” Ebs says, as even and monotone as ever, but there’s an undercurrent of heat to it, primed below the surface.

“Dude.” Taylor makes a face, hitting the brakes as some asshole in a Hummer—seriously, who the fuck drives a Hummer anymore?—cuts him off. “It was just a joke.”

“It’s not funny,” Ebs snaps. “They’ve been through so much shit. You fucking _know_ how shitty Tito felt.”

Taylor had sort of known, peripherally, but if Tito felt shitty he tried his best to avoid Taylor. There were stretches of weeks, sometimes months over the past two years where Taylor wouldn’t see Tito at all except in flashes, hauled up in the basement or out surfing whenever Taylor ended up at Ebs’ place.

“And they’re finally trying, after everything, and you—” Ebs cuts himself off with a shake of his head, looking back out the passenger’s side window. “That’s a fucked thing to say.”

There’s something in him, something ugly and twisted that’s lived inside of him for years, feeding off every shitty thing he’s ever done, that wants to pick a fight. That wants to tells Ebs how he thinks Tito and Barzy are doomed to fail, in excruciating detail. Wants to poke at the raw, exposed nerves Ebs has just flashed him, over and over until his number gets blocked and the sidedoor at Marty's house is never unlocked. There’s something in him that he’s carried all this time that still wants to prove himself right—that Ebs hates him, everyone hates him, because he’s an actual piece of shit. Taylor feels it, the lump in the back of his throat, heavy.

“You’re right,” Taylor says, swallowing. “It was a fucked thing to say. I didn’t actually...I don’t know why I said that. I thought it was funny, in my head, but like, you know what a fucked up place that is so.” A beat, then, “Sorry.”

Ebs sighs, long and noisy. “You’re always like that about them. I get you don’t like them, but they’re my friends.”

“I like them,” Taylor says, defensive, then winces. “Better than most people.”

A snort. “That literally means jackshit.”

“Okay, well, Barzy’s only kind of annoying,” Taylor amends. “And Tito hates me way more than I hate him.”

“He just…” Ebs tries, but there’s no way to finish that sentence without unpacking Everything Else that’s at the end of it.

“I mean, I assume Marty told him,” Taylor says, and oh god. Oh shit, he’s doing this. “I never...you know, I never really apologized. For everything, back then.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Ebs groans. “Seriously? Now? We’re doing this now?”

“My bad,” Taylor says, “When should we reschedule my shitty five year late apology about my fucked up addict shit? Tuesday? Tuesday at three, does that work for you?”

“Only you.” Ebs shakes his head. “Only you could try to say sorry and still sound like an asshole.”

Taylor grips the steering wheel a little tighter. He can’t do this, not with some shitty Maroon 5 song playing on the radio. He spins the volume dial to zero and turns on his hazards, jerking the car over onto the shoulder of the freeway fast enough to make the tires squeal and throws it into park. He turns in the driver’s seat, facing a near bewildered looking Ebs, eyebrows at his hairline, mouth in an almost smile.

“I am sorry,” Taylor says, heart fucking beating out a samba inside of his chest. “I’m so sorry—I did the shittiest thing I could’ve possibly done, and I’m so fucking sorry, Ebs.”

Ebs has a window full of sunlight behind him, highlighting his edges. His face squishes, mouth drawing tight as he shakes his head. “The shittiest thing you could’ve done was if you never came back.”

“You—” Taylor’s voice hitches, and he whips back forward, staring out over the congested 101 in rush hour traffic. “Why can’t you just be fucking mad? Why can’t you just tell me to fuck off? I fucking hurt you. I stole all your money. I was the reason you didn’t see you family that year—you should _hate_ me.”

Ebs stares at him. Taylor can see it out of the corner of his eye, that steady half-lidded glare. Then, he just shrugs, “But I don’t.”

_Oh fuck you,_ Taylor thinks, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, trying to physically push the tears back with his fingers. _Fuck you don’t fucking cry you fucking—_

“Is that why you’re did all this?” Ebs asks. “‘Cause you feel guilty, or to make it up to me, or-or whatever?”

_I’m doing this because I fucking love you,_ Taylor mentally blasts at him. _You fucking fuck._

“You did a really shitty thing,” Ebs finally says. “And like, for the longest time I...I told Marty he was wrong, that you wouldn’t do that, and then it was like, well, you were sick. I could see it, you weren’t in a good place, so even though I was upset I couldn’t go home that year, I was really just worried. God, Halls, I was so fucking scared.”

Taylor’s jaw clenches. He’d expected anger. He’d expected hate. In a weird way, he’d wanted it so badly, just to validate all his shitty self-loathing. To finally be proven right, all along, that Ebs could never feel for Taylor what Taylor feels for him. 

Eb’s throat bobs with a slow swallow. “What was the money was for?”

Taylor pushes out a big breath, leaning back against the seat, eyes sliding shut for a slow moment. “I got rolled that night. They took everything on me, and I owed like four-hundred bucks to the guys I was selling for.”

“I would’ve just given it to you,” Ebs says, and it rips the air between them open, the silence bleeding heavy and thick around them. 

“Fuck you, dude,” Taylor says, but it comes out hoarse, heatless.

“No, fuck your bullshit apology,” Ebs tells him. “You’re only saying it as some weird, shitty way to feel bad about yourself. So fuck that, and fuck you, too. You fucked up—is that what you want to hear? How shitty of a person you are? How you fucked up so bad, and everyone knows it? Fine. But you know what? After all the bullshit, you got your shit together, and you came back. You’re here, and you’re my best fucking friend, you stupid asshole.”

It hurts. It hurts too much to not reach across the gearshift and slip his hand around the back of Ebs’ neck and kiss him. It’s awkwardly angled, his seat belt cutting across him, holding him back, Ebs making a muffled sound against his mouth that rips Taylor back into reality.

He jerks back, electric heart beating so fast it feels like it’s humming, and he sits back in his seat, staring wide and unblinking out over the highway. He can’t speak, his throat closed too tightly. He doesn’t even think he’s breathing.

Ebs’ voice wobbles from the passenger’s seat. “What the fuck was that.”

Taylor’s sweating, feels it at his temples, under his arms, but there’s still a chill running through him.

“Taylor,” Ebs says again, “what the fuck was that?”

Taylor hands hover uselessly in front of him, wishing for something to grab onto other than the steering wheel. “Nothing, fuck, I don’t know.”

“You can’t just do that,” Ebs says, “and act like it’s nothing.”

Taylor whips his gaze around. “You did.”

Every emotion seeping out of Ebs is sucked back in by a standard, easy half lidded stare, mouth opening and shutting with words that refuse to come out before he turns back forward, staring at the drawstrings of his sweats. “I didn’t think you remembered.” 

Taylor pushes a breath through his nose, one hand on the steering wheel, the other circling a thumb against his temple. 

“Or if you did,” Ebs goes on, “that you didn’t want to.” 

Taylor’s eyes slip shut. Everything won’t stop spinning.

When he opens them again, Ebs is still there. Ebs is still there because they’re on the shoulder of the freeway in his car so there’s really nowhere to fucking go, but also because Ebs is always there. It’s not the big grand gesture at the crux of a romantic comedy, linear and neat—it’s something else, something undone and real. No matter how badly Taylor has managed to fuck up or avoid shit or run away, Ebs is still there, laughing or calling him out or snoring loudly into Taylor’s shoulder. Ebs is going to keep being there if Taylor just fucking lets him.

He's buzzing down to his atoms, can't focus his eyes on anything, can't stop shaking. He finally manages, “What do you want for dinner?”

Ebs narrows his eyes. “What?”

“We can’t keep eating out but fuck me if I’m going to actually cook something tonight,” Taylor turns his hazards off, on, off again. “Maybe you can trick Cal into making us food? Like barbeque or something. Outside. ‘Cause it’s nice out and just ‘cause we can.”

“Dude, I don’t—”

“Or we can go back to mine, ‘cause I don’t think anyone’s there tonight.” He looks at Ebs, who’s staring at him like he doesn’t know whether to be mad or upset or exhausted. “And we can try this again. You know, without being in the car for fifteen hours and talking circles around each other like fucking weenies.”

Ebs sounds near exasperated, “What are you—try what?”

“The part where I tell you I love you.” Taylor looks at him. “And you say it back.”

Ebs isn’t looking anywhere but him, and Taylor’s thrown back in time to that first night, on some stranger’s patio, Ebs giving him that same half-lidded look, slow and patient and unyielding. A trillion and one different coincidences, chances, sparks for the universe to create the miracle of two fucking dumbasses meeting and falling in love.

Ebs undoes his seat belt, yanking it off so hard the metal clacks hard against the window as he throws himself over the gearshift and climbs into Taylor’s lap. “I’ve waited seven goddamn years for this.” Ebs stuffs his hands into Taylor’s hair. “I’m not waiting another fucking two hours to get home.”

When Ebs kisses him, it sears right through everything, Taylor’s hands sliding up the back of his shirt, Ebs’ thumbs stroking over his cheeks. Those sparks bloom, warm and steady, like beams of light spilling out from between tasted words and promises, catching and refracting in a million different pieces against the driver’s seat.

—

They end up eating Marty’s leftovers out of the fridge at midnight, cold pulled pork and pasta salad they both know they’ll catch hell for eventually, but they’re too sleepy and full to care, all but collapsing onto a lounge chair together out in the backyard. The house is empty, quiet, and if Taylor’s cold because the fire they made is already dying, he can just move closer.

“Can’t believe it took us this fucking long,” Ebs mutters, on the cusp of a deep sleep Taylor will chase him into. He’s got a hand fisted in the front of Taylor’s hoodie that won’t let go, even as he visibly melts, cool breeze coming off the ocean just a few fence posts away.

He snorts. “I can—have you met us? It’s a miracle we can even function on a daily basis without constant supervision.”

Ebs yawns, wiggling closer. “Speak for yourself. I do backflips through adulthood two-four-seven, baby.”

Something curls contentedly inside of him at the word baby, which is so sappy that Taylor kind of wants to launch himself into the goddamn sun. “You can’t even do a regular somersault through like, getting a flu shot at Walgreens.”

“Obviously not, Halls. I’d end up with a needle in my eye.”

Taylor snakes an arm around Ebs’ neck and rolls on top of him, laughing at the hands jabbing into his sides, trying to push him off, but Ebs is cackling, even when they fall over the side of the patio chair and onto the grass. When Ebs kisses him, Taylor tastes years in the making. Tastes wrinkled sheets and bonfires and delirious 3am laughter, a trillion chances like pieces of light coalescing in what feels like a bright, warm homecoming.

/end.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for me, but if you liked it too that's cool 
> 
> thanks for reading :)


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